IDAHO magazine February 2007 by IDAHO Magazine

The February 2007 issue is dedicated to the

memory of Greg Poe,

a good friend, one of the

world's finest aerobatic pilots and an inspiration to

tens of thousands of youngsters all over the United States

High Flight

by John Gillespie Magee Jr.

GREG POE

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunwards I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds — and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air... Up, up the long delirious burning blue I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace, Where never lark, or even eagle, flew — And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

FEBRUARY 2007

VOL. 6, NO. 5

Greg Poe

In the air, upside down

Scotsmen Return Welcoming back the clans

Grace

Spotlight City

$3.50 USA

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JULY

FEATURES G reg Po e 12

Walter Mitty dreamed his life away, but Greg Poe had no such inclination. When his children were young, he worked diligently managing the Northwest Telco office in Boise, but he and his wife scrimped, saved, dreamed and planned. When they were able to transform their dreams into reality, Greg swapped his suit and tie for a flight suit, and he transformed himself into one of the world's finest aerobatic pilots. But, there's more to Greg than flying, and he's become an inspiration to tens of thousands of youngsters all over the United States. By Kitty Fleischman

G ra ce – S p o t l i g ht Ci t y 32

In the center of Gem Valley lies the quiet, little mile-high community of Grace, population 1,100. Surrounded by fertile farmland, irrigated by the Bear River through the ingenuity of its founders, and featuring a population that is both hard-working and devout, this small town provides a quality of life and experience hard to match throughout the Gem State. By Bill Corbett

S co t sm e n R ev i si t 52 S A N D POI N T

p. 24, 49

WORL E Y

p. 52

COEUR d’ALENE INDIAN RESERVATION p. 52

In 1809, fur traders near Lake Pend Oreille made first contact with the Schitsu’umsh, now known as the Coeur d’Alene Tribe. Comprised mostly of Scots, the traders got on quite well with the tribe, though the relationship was ultimately short-lived. Nearly 200 years later, a mutual fondness for the Scottish game of golf renewed the ancient friendship between the clans and the tribe. By Jack McNeel Dear Readers: This New Year has already brought interesting chang

es to the Gem State. We have a new governor, a renewed legislature, and a heightened visibility nationwide that M OS COW p. 19, 61 reflects from the fifth-ranked, Fiesta Bowl Champions, the Boise State University Broncos. And in other ways, great and small, Idaho is evolving, becoming something other than what we always have known. And that is a good thing. While it can be disconcerting to watch the familiar become less so, often with remarkable rapidity, history reminds us constantly that nothSALMON ing remains the same. It cannot. But if we p. 8 make the effort to remember the past, SALMON both the good and RIVER the bad, we can p. 8 STANLE Y H ORS E S H OE preserve the best of p. 8 BEND what we were and p. 28 what we are for the sake of posterity. B OISE C A L DW E L L p. 12, 28, 40 C AR E Y And those p. 44 p. 27 memories very often become a wonderful story.

G race

T WIN FALLS

p. 22

p. 32

Dene Oneida Managing Editor

departments

28 letter from the publisher Libraries burning down

road tripping

Down the Salmon River Byway

music makers The Palouse

studebaker says Shooting the Shot

animal kingdom Zeus

one spud short Fun with goats

profile

Grace Fenton

fathers and sons

Milk Toast

point of view Old-timer

family matters Reconnecting

recipe contest 2007 Warm up the oven

recipe contest

Chicken LoneHawk

idaho extras

62-63

contributors

Calendar of Events, Service Directory, and Idaho Links

cover photo Pictured: Cliff SiJohn greets the visiting Scots. Photograph title: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Welcoming the Clansâ&#x20AC;? Photographer: Jack McNeel

FEBRUARY 2007 VOL. 6, NO. 5

Publisher & Editor Kitty Delorey Fleischman

kfleisch@idahomagazine.com

Art Director Ann Hottinger ahottinger@idahomagazine.com

Managing Editor Dene Oneida doneida@idahomagazine.com

Business Manager Elliott Martin emartin@idahomagazine.com

Illustrator Dick Lee Copy Editor Les Tanner Calendar Editor Ruby Tanner rtanner@idahomagazine.com

Advertising Contact Kitty Fleischman (208) 336.0653, ext. 100

Contributors Desiré Aguirre See page 64

Ann Clizer Bill Corbett Jamey Coulter Toinette Dickey Donna Emert Kitty Fleischman

Jack McNeel Carl Melina Ryan Peck William Studebaker Les Tanner Dean Worbois

Logo Design J. Ernest Monroe

Please send your change of address to emartin@idahomagazine.com or to the address below. IDAHO magazine considers unsolicited manuscripts, fiction, nonfiction, and letters for publication. Editorial submissions should be sent to:

IDAHO magazine P.O. Box 586 • Boise, ID 83701-0586 or 1412 W. Idaho, Suite 240 • Boise, ID 83702 doneida@idahomagazine.com (208) 336.0653 or (800) 655.0653 Unsolicited manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by a selfaddressed, stamped envelope. Do not e-mail complete manuscripts. IDAHO magazine (ISSN 1552-6240) is published monthly by IDAHO magazine, Inc., a corporation in the state of Idaho, owned by Idahoans. The contents of IDAHO magazine are copyrighted, and all rights are reserved. Material cannot be photocopied, reprinted, or reused in any form without the written consent of the publisher. Produced and printed in Idaho.

letter from the publisher/editor

Libraries Burning Down

By Kitty Fleischman

n the hurly-burly world of business, we sometimes become so absorbed in what we’re doing that we can too easily forget why we’re doing it. Because of the different hats I wear, that’s exactly how I felt in December as I scrambled to ask businesses to put us into their advertising budgets for 2007, meet other job pressures as we hurtled toward the end of the year, and, at home, hurried to prepare for the holiday season. At the same time, our January issue brought a splash of cold water to remind me about the whys. When we started this publication, our goal was to save as many stories from Idaho’s oldtimers as we could manage. The children who grew up in our state’s infancy are quickly leaving our midst and, with them, they take a wealth of knowledge and a host of experiences that could enrich all of our lives.

Every time an old person dies, it’s like a library has burned down.

Two of the people who had stories submitted for our January edition died before they saw those stories in print. At least two of our libraries burned down recently. Reah Alice Thompson Barker was born in Notus, Idaho in 1920, delivered by her maternal grandmother. She was the youngest of four children born to James and Pearl Haines Thompson, although two of her older siblings died before her birth. She grew up with one older brother, Argil, on Lower Pleasant Ridge in Canyon County. According to her son-in-law, Coston Frederick, “Reah had one daughter, but was the matriarch of a large and loving network of family and friends. She stayed curious and involved in the world around her. She had a passion for human rights and a strong sense of the power of love and the mystery beyond our narrow sight. Her wicked sense of humor and unusual dignity will be greatly missed. Those who knew her realized what an extraordinary woman she was.” Reah also was a member of the Menomee (Turtle) clan of Lenapie (Delaware) tribe. Reah related to Coston an event from her childhood, and he wrote it up, changing some of the specifics, but leaving the body of the story intact, its voice and intent as Reah had told it to him. It was called “The Jason Event,” a story of death and burial in a simpler time. No undertakers were nearby, the family gathered to mourn and support each other, and Reah’s beautiful young cousin was buried in a simple wooden box. The story speaks with a clarity and simplicity that reminds us gently of our ultimate destiny in life—death.

©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

letter from the publisher/editor

Roberta Green was born in Challis in 1919 to Dr. Robert and Ethel Thompson Philips. Described as a child with a wide, beautiful smile, laughing blue eyes and a joyous heart, all were traits Roberta retained throughout her life. From a young age, it was clear that Roberta planned to choose her own path in life. Discovering that she was the only family member without a middle name, she promptly chose Helen as her middle name. It was the first name of one of her best friends. Roberta’s story for our December issue was about Idaho’s old-time cowboys: rugged men with quiet ways and a reluctance to share much information about their lives prior to their arrivals at the ranch. At the age of fourteen, Roberta fell madly in love with a handsome cowboy named Clyde Green, originally from South Dakota, who came to work on the Philips ranch. Considered by her family to be far too young to marry, one night Roberta tossed her suitcase out the window to Clyde, and they eloped to South Dakota, where they were married. A year later, the young couple returned to Challis, Roberta vowing she’d never move from Idaho again. With that, she threw herself into rearing her family and the life of their community. Eventually, the couple had five children. She developed an intense love of history, took up painting Western themes and began writing history books. The last, “The Lure of Silver and Gold,” she finished less than a week before she died. Roberta’s body of work includes five historical books and a wealth of cowboy poetry. She also organized the first cowboy poetry gathering in Salmon. In addition to being named Idaho Historian of the Year, Roberta was named to the Idaho Cowboy Poetry Hall of Fame, and she won awards as the Idaho Press Woman of the Year, and the Idaho Farm Bureau Ranch Wife of the Year. She leaves behind the legacy of her loving family to carry on what she and Clyde started, and the wealth of stories she took the time to share. All unrecorded memories from Reah and Roberta have gone with them. There are no “do overs,” no chance to ask to hear the story one more time. With that thought in mind, I challenge everyone who knows someone with a history in Idaho and a sense of Idaho history to interview your family members, friends, and neighbors. Spend some time writing down the stories that only those who have lived them can tell. We’re not necessarily looking for stories of famous people. We’re looking for wonderful stories from people you know and love. Our guidelines for writers are on our website, or you can request them by sending us a SASE.

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

Hurry! Another library could burn down tomorrow.

Kitty Fleischman,

Publisher/Editor of IDAHO Magazine

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road tripping

Truckin’ Down the Salmon River Byway Written by Toinette Dickey Photography by Allison Foulk

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

PHOTO BY ALLISON FOULK

he Salmon River has its beginnings in the Sawtooth Mountains, and even though it is only a tiny stream here below Galena Summit, it soon becomes the mighty eight hundred mile “Highway to the Sea” in which the Chinook salmon travel from the Pacific to spawn and die after a long journey home to Redfish and other mountain lakes. The Lewis and Clark Expedition dubbed it the “River of No Return,” and the assumption was that it was impassable. We began our Salmon River Scenic Byway tour at crystal blue Redfish Lake by hiking up to the nearby visitors’ center and reacquainting ourselves with maps of the nearby backcountry. We read of White Cloud wilderness trails, Queens River Trail, and the many lakes such as Hell Roaring, Marshall or Sawtooth Lake. We watched hikers below, bundled in heavy sweats and boots, climb into boats on the lake to be transported to the tour take-off sites where they will hike or ride the ridges on calm rental horses.

PHOTO BY ALLISON FOULK

PHOTO BY TOINETTE DICKEY

road tripping

OPPOSITE: Boats on the beach— Watercraft lined up on shore. ABOVE LEFT: Warmer than it looks—Allison Foulk after bathing where a hot water spring hits the Salmon. ABOVE RIGHT: A lone cowboy—Playing a song on a breached dam.

Early the next morning, we began our 116-mile drive to Salmon. Not far out of Stanley, Highway 75 becomes Highway 26 and then Highway 93. Down the river a couple of miles we came to the hot springs where scalding water races down the hillside and spills into the glistening Salmon. We examined the stone building where baths used to be taken. Alli waded into the freezing waters

where the hot waters poured into concrete dam was constructed many the Salmon, finding a perfect place years ago. At this lookout, we pulled to sit and relax, smiling in spite of over and watched, to our astonishwind, drops of rain, and the thunment, as a cowboy walked along the derheads above. top of the dam, a guitar strapped The winding over his shoulder, river grew in size until he reached the The Lewis and and momentum as Clark Expedition edge of the narrow we moved along. walkway. Then, at dubbed it the Rafters launched the edge of the old “River of No their rafts from dam, he moved his Return,” and the pole slides into the guitar from his water; damp orange assumption was shoulder and, gazvests first gleamed ing at the river that it was brightly, and then directly below, he impassable. faded into shadows, appeared to be playas clouds struggled ing and singing a with the sun. The vastness of the song. The roar of the river prevented mountains and the depth of the canus from ever knowing for certain, yon grew as well, and soon the road but the image was a vivid one. climbed to a lookout where a small We traveled farther down ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

road tripping

PHOTO BY ALLISON FOULK

river and turned off toward the valley into Custer City. The Custer City, stopping at Yankee one-room cabins with white chinkFork Gold Dredge. The memorial ing dotted the sides of the road, said that even though the miners and each was marked by a stone of 1872 had panned the gravel path. We stopped near the Art here it still held gold. The Snake McGowans Museum. A wooden River Mining Company placed its sign by the yellow building notes that dredge here to the museum was collect what was The scenery along “established in remaining. the way was rich memory of their Purchased in son, who lost his with blue-green 1909 and hauled life at the age of water, towering, to the site to be twenty-nine durassembled, the ing construction thick pines, and dredge recovered of Palisades Dam sunset-colored $1,200,000 in in eastern Idaho, rock formations. gold, and of the old-timers ploughed now living, and of through six million cubic yards of those passed on to the happy huntgravel before being shut down in ing grounds.” The Empire Saloon 1952. Steve, being a welder, was across the road was boarded up, but fascinated with the dredge. the ramp and old front porch seem Alli couldn’t wait to get to the to invite you in for a raucous evening ghost town a few miles ahead. of saloon girls’ companionship and Once there, we drove through won“drinks on the house.” derful old deciduous trees framing The information posted by the

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

ABOVE LEFT: The Yankee Fork Gold Dredge—Shut down in 1952, it brought in over $1.2 million in gold. ABOVE RIGHT: No drinks served — The Empire Saloon is now closed to the thirsty.

road stated that Custer City was named after General George Armstrong Custer. The General Custer Gold Mine’s rich vein of gold was uncovered by a snow slide in 1876, and that ore discovery led to Custer City’s becoming a booming community. The town was founded in 1879 and, at its height, boasted more than one hundred buildings. It thrived for thirty years before going bust in 1911. This sign also mentioned a toll road, known as the Custer Motorway Adventure Road, that offered a fascinating tour through the backcountry to Challis. Custer City was rich with artifacts, including a rusted early car body, ore boxes, wringer washing

road tripping machines, wheels, mining tools, and many nondescript items. One sign in town told of a woman whose husband left her homeless, so she was given and lived in a rock house on the side of the mountain above the town. She found it to be comfortable and warm. The house’s rock foundation still exists and you can climb to the foundation easily. Standing there gives you a sense of the people who once lived in the town. There were several miles remaining to the town of Salmon, so we returned to the Salmon River Scenic Byway. The scenery along the way was rich with blue-green water, towering thick pines, and sunset-colored rock formations. At last, we arrived at Salmon and took one last tour at the Sacajawea Center. The center is built on a seventy-one acre park, and among other features, it has a research library with journals and works about the expedition, as well as other works on American Indian topics. There is also a small theatre, named for Meriwether Lewis, that seats seventy-five, a natural amphitheatre, and several “event sheds” used for gatherings of various types. The Discovery Camp Area allows for “primitive” camping, and the surrounding grounds are beautiful and include a statue of Sacajawea with her baby in her arms and another of Meriwether Lewis’ large Newfoundland dog, Seaman, which accompanied him on the expedition. All around, one can learn an amazing amount about the life and times of Sacajawea, her people, the Agaidika, and the Lewis and Clark Expedition. In the end, we were awed by the trip we took along Idaho’s most notable byway. We learned a lot about the lives of the people who lived along the Salmon River in the signs and stories we read along the way. And when our journey concluded in Salmon, we ate our lunch of fast food fries, hamburgers, and pop, and thought of the pioneers who didn’t have it nearly so easy.

Salmon River Byway

Length

161.7 miles. Allow 3.5 hours.

Roadway

Two-lane road with no passing lanes and some twenty-five-mph curves.

When to see it

Best weather for travel is April to November, although access to the back country is best from July to October.

Special attractions

Sacajawea Interpretive Center; Salmon spawning beds at Indian Riffles; Land of the Yankee Fork Interpretive Center;Tower Rock; Continental Divide National Scenic Trail; Lewis and Clark National Historic Trail; Nez Perce (Nee MeePoo) National Historic Trail; Salmon Wild & Scenic River; Middle Fork Salmon Wild & Scenic River; Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness; Salmon-Challis and Sawtooth National Forests; natural hot springs and ghost towns.

Camping

Salmon River, Riverside, Mormon Bend, Basin Creek, Upper and Lower O’Brien, Holman Creek, East Fork, Bayhorse, Spring Gulch, Cottonwood, Shoup Bridge, Tower Rock, Twin Creek.

Services

Full services in Stanley, Challis, Salmon, North Fork; partial services in Clayton, Gibbonsville.

Whom to call Salmon Valley Chamber of Commerce phone: (800) 727-2540, email: svcc1@centurytel.net, web: http://www.salmonbyway.com/ Stanley- Sawtooth Chamber of Commerce phone: (208) 774-3411, web: http://www.stanleycc.org/ Stanley Ranger Station phone: (208) 774- 3000 Sawtooth National Recreation Area phone: (208) 727- 5013 Salmon-Challis National Forests phone: (208) 756-5100, web: www.fs.fed.us/r4/sc Yankee Fork Ranger District phone: (208) 838-3300 Challis Ranger District phone: (208) 879-4100 North Fork Ranger District phone: (208) 865-2700 Salmon District Bureau of Land Management phone: (208) 756-5400 *Audio tape tours available for Stanley to Challis & Challis to Salmon.

Toinette Dickey lives in Nampa. ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

Greg Poe

The Not -

PHOTO SUPPLIED COURTESY OF GREG POE

. . . “The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir,” said the sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair. “Get him to bed,” he said wearily, “with the others. I'll fly alone.” “But you can't, sir,” said the sergeant anxiously. “It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman's circus is between here and Saulier.” “Somebody's got to get that ammunition dump,” said Mitty. “I'm going over. Spot of brandy?” He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door. There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. “A bit of a near thing,” said Captain Mitty carelessly. “The box barrage is closing in,” said the sergeant. “We only live once, Sergeant,” said Mitty, with his faint, fleeting smile. “Or do we?” He poured another brandy and tossed it off. “I never see a man could hold his brandy like you, sir,” said the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir.” Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers automatic. “It's forty kilometers through hell, sir,” said the sergeant. Mitty finished one last brandy. “After all,” he said softly, “what isn't?” The pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of machine guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers. Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming “Aupres de Ma Blonde.” He turned and waved to the sergeant. “Cheerio!” he said. . . . *

- s o S ecret Life of Greg Poe By Kitty Fleischman

n James Thurber’s story, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” the hero was constantly daydreaming his way through life. For Greg Poe, it’s been a lot different. Sure, there were years of managing TelAmerica and Northwest Telco, long-distance service companies in Boise during the 1980s. It was a Monday through Friday, 9-5 desk job. Suit and tie. Jumping to the corporate tune. Poe said it was a necessity for the family’s financial stability, when his children, Ryan and Kelsey, were young, but he and Sherri, his wife, scrimped and saved, dreamed and planned. Finally, they were able to turn their dreams into reality and, ultimately, Greg now has achieved recognition as one of the world’s finest aerobatic pilots. Just like Clark Kent who dodged into a phone booth and

flew off as Superman, Greg swapped the suit and tie for a flight suit, and transformed himself into the serious aerobatic pilot he always had wanted to be. As a youngster growing up in Boise in the early ‘60s, Greg, now fifty-three, reveled in the excitement and adventure of the space race as the Americans and Russians battled to see who would conquer the unexplored territory beyond the skies of our tiny planet. He knew the names of all of the astronauts, and he intently followed the space program. He took his first flight when he was sixteen, and, at nineteen, he began taking flying lessons at the Strawberry Glen Airport that was located near Glenwood and State streets in Boise. A dirt airstrip, the site now sprouts a subdivision and nearby shopping centers. There Greg learned to fly in a

Cherokee 140, then switched to a Bellanca Decathlon so he could learn aerobatic maneuvers from fledgling flight instructor John Chambers, who later flew F-4s for the Air Force Reserves, and eventually became the chief pilot for Boise Cascade Corporation. Greg says Chambers still works with him and serves as his coach. Greg received his private pilot’s license when he was nineteen, then earned his degree in Electronics Engineering Technology at Boise State University, graduating in 1985. Joining the workaday world to support his family, Greg said he found he was constantly in a state of daydreaming and planning, looking for ways to support his family on thin air. The family got its bills paid ahead. They saved and ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

PHOTO SUPPLIED COURTESY OF GREG POE

planned so they could survive during a airplane needs to be what’s called time with uncertain income. In 1994 ‘rigged’ to make sure it’s flying straight his chance finally came. “When I and true. I’d make a list of problems, finally had a chance to get out, I didn’t and the new planes were tweaked walk away, I ran!” Flying his own Citabria, Poe In 2002, the Poes faced the began “working as a flight death of their twenty-year-old instructor, doing back-country charters, pulling banners across son Ryan to drug use. ...Instead city skies, anything to earn a few of allowing himself to be bucks flying.” He got a job as a test pilot dragged down by his personal for Aviat Aircraft in Wyoming, grief, Greg wanted to encourmanufacturers of the Husky and Pitts aircraft, commuting from age other youngsters to avoid Idaho to work there. “I did the drugs and follow their dreams. production test flights. It’s a lot like tuning a piano. When the planes are first built, some of the until everything was perfect.” gauges might not work quite right, or He began entering aerobatic things might not feel quite right. The competitions and air shows. Flying,

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

High over New Orleans—Greg wings acrobatically over The Big Easy, with the Superdome in the background.

he said, comes naturally to him. He began traveling to air shows all over the United States, and from Canada through Central America and into South America. Those were years of building a reputation, winning competitions and learning the ropes. Eventually he sold his Pitts Special, an aerobatic bi-plane, in 1996 and moved up to an Edge 540, the highest performance plane available at that time. It is a composite aircraft built with carbon fibers for more strength that is still extremely lightweight. “It is an impressive plane,” Greg says, “and it helped me to get a

lot of sponsors.” It helped, that is, until September 11, 2001, when the world of aviation was tipped upside down following the attack on the World Trade Center. All air shows were cancelled, and private aviation was limited severely. “Those were hard times. We went eight months with no income.” Wondering how things could get worse, in 2002 the Poes faced the death of their twenty-year-old son Ryan to drug use. Ryan had fought his addiction for a long time, but finally lost the battle. It was a heartbreaking turn of events for the family, and for Greg, who enjoyed sharing his interest in aviation with Ryan, who was an avid participant. “Ryan was a great pilot. He loved planes, shows and flying. He enjoyed the pilots on the circuit.” Instead of allowing himself to be dragged down by his personal grief, Greg wanted to encourage other youngsters to avoid drugs and follow their dreams. Toward that end he has developed a program he offers for schools wherever he does air shows or competitions. “Elevate Your Life” is geared primarily toward middle school and high school students, and it has three main messages: Don’t give up on yourselves, follow your dreams, and aim high. Estimating that he’s spoken at more than a hundred schools since starting the program, Greg said he’s already scheduled for fifty school appearances this year. “Sometimes the kids are skeptical about you because they think you’re some old guy, but when they see you flying a plane through all of the aerobatic maneuvers, you have their full attention. Then they think it’s pretty cool.” Only once, he said, did he cut short a presentation because the students were disinterested and disrespectful. “Mostly they come up with some great questions. Sometimes they surprise you. I’ve been asked, Did you ever drop bombs? Did you ever crash? How much did your plane cost? Most of them think what you do is pretty cool, and they are grateful you’ve taken time to come and meet them.” The most difficult situation was in Shreveport, Louisiana, this past year, he said, when he was asked to speak at two tough schools. One was a middle school in a very poor neighborhood, the ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

Your audience is here. Where is your ad? Kitty Fleischman 336.0653 or (800) 655.0653 kfleisch@idahomagazine.com

PHOTO SUPPLIED COURTESY OF GREG POE

other was a “lockdown” school with well-supervised. As usual, he urged uniformed officers supervising. them to find the passion in their “ They were the lives and follow ‘throwaway’ kids The most difficult situa- their dreams. After that nobody wantthe video, the tion was in Shreveport, ed. Checking it youngsters were full out the day before Louisiana ... They were of questions, and the presentation, I many stood in the ‘throwaway’ kids later wondered if I line to shake his should wear a flak hand and some gave that nobody wanted. jacket. him hugs. Greg was Checking it out the day “It isn’t an amazed by the warm before the presentation, response, but the easy presentation to give. I expose a I wondered if I should supervisors told him lot about Ryan’s these were kids who wear a flak jacket. drug use and his always had been death, and it’s a given “hand-medifficult part of my life. I was afraid down everything,” and they were of kids acting out or being sarcastic.” really impressed that he had taken The day of the event there were the time to come and talk to them. about forty kids, and they were Would he give up job security

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

Flying at an abrupt angle—Soaring above the airfield at a Peoria airshow.

and do it all again? Considering the passion with which he talks about his flying, it’s surprising when Greg stops a few minutes to think about how to answer that. “It’s a complicated question,” he said. “I’ve had the highest highs and some of the hardest times. It’s been such a commitment. I have to operate at such a high level. As a professional pilot, I also have to be an athlete. I have to work out physically, eat right, and I travel more than a hundred fifty days a year. There is a lot of personal sacrifice. I don’t like to fail, so I give it my all. “It’s just tough. I can’t imagine not doing this. Even with weather problems, breakdowns and having

to fly coast-to-coast for shows, it’s what I was made to do. “When I went into this, I had no idea how much sacrifice, danger and risk I was taking. It’s going well now though.” In 2006, a new sponsor, Fagen, Inc., from Minnesota, stepped up to sponsor the plane, which runs on eighty-five percent ethanol fuel (E-85). Greg first became interested in ethanol when he was exploring its possibilities for increasing engine performance years ago through the Idaho Energy Division of the Department of Water Resources. He now has used it to power his planes for more than ten years. “Whether you’re looking for great engine performance, want to do your part for the environment, or you’re looking out for American jobs, ethanol is the best choice,” Greg said. When E-85 isn’t available, he added, there is a fairly simple method for adjusting the fuel servo so it can be modified to run on regular aviation fuel. It takes three hours to do the modification, but he said, E-85 is becoming increasingly available. Greg’s flight schedule for 2007, shown at www.gregpoe.com, details another busy year of flying. Air shows often attract a hundred thousand or more spectators, and in those cases, he said the interaction is different, but also is usually positive. His flying is choreographed to music, and he talks to crowds from the cockpit by radio as he flies. Spectators on the ground can tell what he’s doing by the smoke that comes from the tail pipe. A pump sprays a thin layer of oil into the plane’s exhaust pipe, which burns off the oil to produce smoke. While using the smoke, the plane spins and tumbles, while aerobatic maneuvers all can be followed easily from the ground and even captured on still photos. Champing at the bit for the new air season to start, Greg will be flying to Houston in early January to be fitted into the cockpit of his new custom-built plane. Then he’ll fly to Florida to train in the company’s prototype. At the end of February he’ll be picking up his new plane from Houston. The MX-2 will be custom-fitted for him, with all gauges exactly where he wants them, the ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

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radio and all of the controls where he can reach them most easily. Sherri said she is looking forward to the new plane because it is a two-seater, so she’ll be able to accompany him to many more of the performances he gives. A gigantic hit on the air show and aerobatic circuits, Idaho’s native son has been featured on ESPN, Fox Sports, and other national shows, including a recent appearance on the Weather Channel. One of his aerobatic maneuvers has been recorded for “Ripley’s Believe It or Not.” Called the “Corkscrew,” he takes a wild, spinning ride followed by an amazing 11.4 g pull to vertical. It is one of several aerobatic maneuvers that are unique to Greg’s work.

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

Many people ask Sherri if she’s afraid when she watches Greg fly, but she says only when there are other pilots flying with him. “I’m more worried about him when he’s driving than when he’s flying.” Her favorite maneuver is the “tail slide,” in which he spirals straight up, then tumbles down through the smoke tail first. In Greg’s mind, the ultimate “E-Ticket ride” is what he calls “Newton’s Folly.” As a student, his favorite subject was physics, and in this aerobatic maneuver, he says, he flies the plane in a nose over tail tumble, defying the laws of physics. Greg once was asked by a young student, “Does pulling all of those g-forces make your hair fall out?”

Just another day at the office—A breathtaking view high over the riverduring the Peoria airshow.

The question, even in retrospect, draws a hearty laugh from Greg, whose head is adorned by a simple Friar Tuck-like fringe. How long does Greg plan to keep flying? “I expect another eight or nine years on the air show circuit, but beyond that, I’ll keep flying until I can’t fly anymore.” * Taken from “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” by James Thurber Kitty Fleischman is publisher-editor of IDAHO magazine.

music makers

The Palouse A Springboard for Singer-Songwriters By Ryan Peck

PHOTO BY WENDY MYERS

hen some people think of where to find musicians in Idaho, they immediately think of the state’s capital city, Boise, or Sun Valley, and it is true that many fine artists live there. It is also true, however, that many of the best

musicians in Idaho can be found in other places. Muzzie Braun lives in a cabin north of Stanley, Steve and Marcus Eaton hail from Pocatello, and Rosalie Sorrels makes her home at Grimes Creek. A strong case can also be made as well for

Moscow, a city that is fast becoming a career springboard for singersongwriters. Growing numbers of musicians from the Palouse have put their guitars in their cars and driven out of northern Idaho to national—and in the case of at least one artist — international acclaim and recognition. Darren Smith, Douglas Cameron, Josh Ritter, and Charlie Sutton are excellent examples of Moscow artists who have become nationally successful musicians. “I think northern Idaho has a certain timeless quality to it. It is a place that I can always count on for inspiration and direction,” says singer-songwriter Darren Smith, who in 2006 released his first solo record, Last Drive. It is an album that chronicles the lives of timeless characters who could very well have been plucked out of the north Idaho landscape. “The winter season’s short days actually help with Waiting for his turn —Darren Smith jamming with friends. A northern Idahobased musician, he is one of many artists who make their home in Moscow.

©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

music makers

PHOTO BY WENDY MYERS

ABOVE & INSET: Playing in a natural setting—Josh Ritter at a music festival in Stanley,

PHOTO BY JEREMY PETERSON

songwriting,” says Smith. “They draw songwriters indoors to work on their craft. It’s easy to imagine a solitary figure, outlined by firelight, hunched over an oak desk with his guitar, pen and paper,”

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

One of those solitary figures is prolific songwriter and Moscow native Douglas Cameron. Cameron thinks that the strong music department at the University of Idaho is one of the major influences on Moscow’s music scene. The Lionel Hampton School of Music was named after one of the most influential jazz musicians of the 20th century. Since the 1980s when Hampton began working with University of Idaho to establish a world-class music school, the school has become a Who’s Who

of talented music educators. “One of my heroes is Dan Bukvich [a professor of music at UI],” says Cameron. “I have learned so much from him.” While at UI, Cameron first met up with the musicians Ryan Gibler, Casey Miller, and John Fricke. These three music students would later form the band Stranger Neighbor with Cameron and tour nationally in the late 1990s through the early 2000s. “We first started playing at a place called the Capricorn. It was so much fun!” exclaimed Cameron. Before long, the band was packing the now-defunct college hangout with lines of fans going out the

music makers door. And it was the enthusiastic reaction of Moscow music fans, Cameron said, that persuaded Stranger Neighbor to take their show on the road. “When we started touring, we retained this Idaho work ethic that helped us go far,” recalls Cameron. “We basically bought a van and drove anywhere and everywhere that would have us. There were a lot of long drives and peanut butter sandwiches!” “Since I left Moscow,” Cameron continued, “I keep hearing of all these artists who got their start there. One of my new favorites is Josh Ritter.” Ritter, the son of two neurobiologists, is a folk musician who has been chewing up column inches all over the world. In 2004, the Irish Hot Press revealed that Ritter had been voted the number one songwriter of the year in their readers’ poll. On his most recent album, “The Animal Years,” Ritter proclaims his hometown love on the track “Idaho”: Thought that I’d been on a boat till that single word you wrote. That single word it landlocked me and turned the masts to cedar trees and the winds to gravel roads. Idaho, Idaho … One of Josh’s songs, “Wings,” has been covered by folk great Joan Baez. It’s a song that was inspired by the historic Cataldo Mission near Moscow. “You know, the history of north Idaho is very interesting— because it was never really owned by

anybody. Up to the 1860s, there were special show happened right across Russians up there, there were French, the border in Pullman, Washington, there were people from the east coast when another Moscow musician, moving west to avoid being drafted in Charlie Sutton, was asked to play on the Civil War, and there were three or the nationally broadcast radio show four different Indian tribes. It was just Prairie Home Companion. He a real melting pot in the middle of couldn’t believe it. “[I only had] three really nowhere,” says Ritter. days’ notice [but] it worked out fine When Ritter was at Oberlin in the end,” says Sutton. On the show, College, he sent off a tape of his Sutton responded to host Garrison songs to the renowned Pete Keillor’s question about how Moscow Seeger. “He didn’t know me from compares with Pullman by saying, Adam, but he wrote me back and “It’s the better half.” Sutton loves said ‘The most important thing Moscow, convincing his fiancée to you could ever do is to choose a move there instead of their initial desplace and dig in,’” recalls Ritter. tination, Eugene, Oregon. “I’m not And dig in he did. The imagery of too keen on clouds all the time,” says northern Idaho inhabits Ritter’s Sutton. “I like it better here. And my songs. This last year, after releasfiancée loves it [now], even though ing one of the most successful she’s a city girl.” albums of his career on V2 It’s hard not to love the music records, Ritter could afford to buy that comes out of the Palouse. a house in Moscow. “When I look Though some musicians get their around, I can’t start in the town believe that then move on Ritter, the son of two and words in the to other places neurobiologists, is a (Smith now lives air bought my folk musician who house,” says in Seattle and Ritter with a Cameron lives in has been chewing laugh. In up column inches all Boise), some of October them, such as over the world. 2006, after Ritter, still choose making it big, to base themselves in a twist of hometown musician in this northern Idaho town. camaraderie, Ritter played a sold A hotbed for music and musiout homecoming show to a thoucians, Moscow is a small town with sand fans in Moscow. And his a lot to offer: an inspiring landfriend, Darren Smith, opened the scape, a fascinating history, a show for him. Fans were treated to renowned music school, and music a very special show by two local lovers by the thousands. boys who made good. Around that same time, another Ryan Peck lives in Boise. ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

studebaker says

Shooting the Shot Taking Pictures the Easy Way By William Studebaker

began taking photographs by default. merized by the sheer agony of the scene. I went to Greenland. I went to The doe’s face was not gaping with Mexico. I went to the Carolinas, fright. It radiated incomprehensibility. Georgia, and West Virginia. I was kaya Had I grabbed my camera, I king, hiking, and camping. There was no would have had time. She didn’t pay one to take pictures, but there were picattention to me. I could have captured tures worth taking, so with a little advice a scene of devotion, desire, and mysI’d gotten from a friend, a professional tery. Rather, I sat in awe. photographer, I began taking shots. The fawn didn’t move. The doe Some turned out. I began seeing instant nudged it, but it didn’t wriggle up frames, and spontaneity is a major part and stagger off with its mom. No of outdoor photography. doubt it was dead. Driving down the south slope of Everything I needed for a heartGalena Summit one night, I saw a stopping picture was there. picture I didn’t The dim light that take. It was too Driving down the showed down the highhorribly beautiful. way lit up the scene, cresouth slope of As I drove ating a soft aura suitable Galena Summit around a corner in for the tawny doe. The one night, I saw a the road my headhighway, black and dotlights fell upon a doe ted with white reflective picture I didn’t standing in the midpaint, created an apex take. It was too dle of the road. Her that disappeared into the horribly beautiful. neck was outnight. The hill slope cut stretched. She was from side to side crossing sniffing her fawn. Apparently, the fawn the simple perspective of the road. There had been struck by the car ahead of me. was tension. There was opportunity. I slowed, stopped. My camera was Obviously, and to repeat, the first on the seat beside me. It’s the first rule of rule is to keep a camera close. My simoutdoor photography: keep your camera ple point-and-shoot camera was on with you. I didn’t reach for it. I was mesthe seat. No problem. Roll down the

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

window, point, and click. I’ve only used three styles of cameras: the waterproof disposable ones, a point-and-shoot Pentax, which I recently placed on top of my car and then drove off, and an Olympus Stylus 120. It’s essentially a point-and-shoot camera too. My cameras aren’t fancy; they’re handy. For exotic sunsets, sunrises, moon configurations, and elaborate landscape, cameras with complex lens, filters, and shutter-speed produce better shots, no doubt, but I’ve seen persons give up good action shots and miss fading stills when the light is moving fast because their equipment is too complex. I’m on the move hiking, hunting, boating, rafting, or training dogs. So I use a quick-draw camera and take my chances using tricks taught to me by Russ Hepworth and Matt Leidecker. Russ and I co-authored Travelers in an Antique Land. For Matt Leidecker, the visionary and photographer for Impassable Canyon: a Journey Down the Middle Fork, I wrote three division introductions. Of course, I studied Matt’s photographs. From Matt and Russ, I gathered these rules of photography:

studebaker says 1. Be close. 2. Know from where your light is coming and use the softest illumination possible. 3. Don’t stand straight up. You’ll get a snapshot, not a picture. Use angles. 4. Be aware of what’s in the background. 5. Use the foreground to create depth. Place a nearby object in the corner or bottom of your viewfinder. This closeness will create three dimensions. The closeness, the light, the angle, and the background will all be enhanced by the contrast. 6. And most importantly, shoot what you know. If you know horses, you’ll shoot good horse photographs. You under stand the emotions and unique actions that make horses intriguing.

PHOTO BY BILL STUDEBAKER

When I saw the deer on the road, everything was there for a good photo, and I’ve taken enough pictures of deer to know that I had a 90% chance of capturing the scene. Had I, it would have been a terrible, award-winning photograph. Everything was ready but my mind. It stalled. Photography comes from the mind too. It has to be prepared for joy and sadness. That I didn’t take the picture doesn’t change the fact that traveling with a light, easy-to-use, weatherresistant camera is encouragement to capture the sudden scene. The once in-a-lifetime photograph comes from being ready. Later a young buck stood in my road, and I shot him. William Studebaker lives in Twin Falls.

©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

animal kingdom

Zeus Getting to know a burro By Desiré Aguirre

call the state lands near Marijuana Knob, twelve miles north of Sandpoint, Splash Estates. I named it after my faithless Pinto mare, Splash-of-Paint. I wanted to christen her Spot, but my brother, a house painter, said she looked like a splash of paint, and my children outvoted me. A fifteen-minute ride from my house, Splash Estates, a 120-acre green box on my map, nestles between Wylie Knob and McNalls ranch. Zeus, the burro that lives in McNalls’ field, has a tan coat with black stripes that wrap around his legs and down the middle of his back. He spends his days with six horses. They ignore him. I felt adventurous the day we met Zeus. The last quarter moon had visited the night before, exiting like a burnt out candle, leaving a glittering day with jade mountains on the horizon. I saddled Splash up, and we trotted to the road that separates the farmer’s fields from state lands. Zeus saw us coming down the dirt path. His ears pricked up. He heed and hawed as he jogged

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

toward us. Splash, disconcerted by his banana-sized ears and humongous nose, performed all her circus tricks. She jigged and jumped. Side stepped, backed, tossed her hair and snorted. Perhaps Splash thought Zeus was an aardvark. When he approached the broken down fence with a yuck, she panicked. She turned her head towards my knee. Her eyes looked like she had held her breath too long. Her nose flared like an elevator door opening and closing. She neighed for release. I wanted to reach out and touch his ears. They came up to Splash’s withers. I wasn’t sure what he was, and thanks to modern technology, I made a quick call to my friend Patty. After describing

the equine type creature, she laughed and said, “Desiré, sounds like a burro to me.” Splash didn’t like my conversation, and continued misbehaving. I closed my phone, then signaled her to turn around, and with a minimal squeeze, she took off at an easy trot. Zeus, bound with excessive desire, found a break in the fence, and walking like a tidy cat, stepped through to our side of the road. “Oops,” I said. “Giddy-up, Splash.” Splash took off like an airplane. We zoomed down the road and into an open field. She threw her head back to look at the monster on her tail. She was terrified. Zeus had fooled me, and ran like a barrel racer. It looked like he

Zeus, the burro that lives in McNalls’ field, has a tan coat with black stripes that wrap around his legs and down the middle of his back. He spends his days with six horses. They ignore him.

animal kingdom would win the race. He stayed behind us as if he had on roller skates. He was amazing. We turned into the sand pit, galloped through, and continued into a field of spotted knapweed with their poisonous purple flowers soaking up the sun, while wholly swallowing the field. I saw the tree too late. I slowed down while making an incomplete turn. The saddle listed to one side and I fell off like a paperweight. I tucked and rolled, a maneuver that I have perfected over the years, using it in gymnastics (thirty-five years ago), snowboarding (flips on the ground), and emergency dismounts. Feeling like an overcooked noodle, I stood up. I dusted my butt, thanking my mom for mak-

ing me wear a helmet, and looked down the road, hoping to see a photo finish ending. But Splash, my beloved horse, and Zeus, were gone. I tracked the critters. Their hoof marks, deep in dirt, indicated that they continued at an all out run. I rubbed my knee, and wondered if I’d have to walk all the way home. I hoped Splash wouldn’t ruin her saddle or step on her reins. The new cinch hadn’t quite broken in, and stretched a bit every time I used it. I chided myself for not tightening it one more buckle. The trail dead-ended at a barbed wired fence. Rotted wooden posts kept the rusty wire off the ground. Beyond the fence stood Splash, huffing and looking ridiculous with the saddle beneath her

belly. Zeus stood next to her, nuzzling the nook of her withers. He hadn’t cracked a sweat. I knew Splash could jump, but I wondered how the burro had gotten over. I found the lowest wire and gingerly stepped over it. As I approached, they looked at each other with tenderness. I picked up a loose rein, patted Splash on the neck, and shoved Zeus out of the way so I could dislodge the saddle and push it upright on Splash’s back. “Zeus,” I said. “Go home.” He looked at me with soft eyes, and I swear I heard him say, “Lady, you’re asking the wrong brother. Why don’t you go soak yourself in a bathtub and leave us alone?” I didn’t have enough cash to buy a burro, and I must admit I

ILLUSTRATION BY DICK LEE

©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

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animal kingdom thought about stealing him. But after pondering the consequences of such an action (horse, and I assume burro, theft is still punishable by hanging in Idaho), I decided to impose a curfew on the creature, and led him back to his field. We followed the fence line until we came to the eastern entrance of Splash Estates. They had covered plenty of territory, and I figured we had another half hour of walking. I worried about how I would get the mischievous burro to stay put.

The saddle listed to one side and I fell off like a paperweight. I tucked and rolled, a maneuver that I have perfected over the years, using it in gymnastics (thirty-five years ago), snowboarding (flips on the ground), and emergency dismounts. Cal, Erlick & Merrick Advertising, D.C. Illustration E.S. Drake, Boise Illustration Gallaudet College, National Deaf Mute College, D.C. Illustration Marine Technology Society, D.C. Exhibit design Steele, Stoltz & Associates, Boise Illustration Washington Post, D.C. Layout design

ILLUSTRATION + DESIGN

Zeus crowded me, pushing me with his moosesized nose so he could stand closer to Splash. I chastised him with a “get over burro,” and shoved him away from me with my elbow. When I had given up hope of sneaking Zeus back into his area, I found an old gate. With little grace on my part, I tricked him into going inside. Splash seemed content to stay beside me, and I managed to close the gate before Zeus could make another escape. I got back on Splash. As we rode off, I turned back to look at Zeus. He appeared to paint a picture of Splash in his mind’s canvas as he looked at her fine Arab face. I waved good-bye. Desiré Aguirre lives in Sandpoint.

IDAH O M AG AZI N E

one spud short

Fun With Goats By Jamey Coulter

ot long ago, and totally against the better judgment of my husband, I decided that my family needed goats. As I had been raised on a dairy farm, I knew the importance of caring for animals, and I thought my children should have that same responsibility. Our property being limited, I figured opting for smaller, less needy animals, would be our best bet — hence the goats. I should have known this idea would go horribly awry when, lacking a horse trailer or even a pickup truck, we decided haul the goats home in our minivan. I’m aware that this screams trashy, but what else were we to do? I was determined. After locating a couple with a herd of pigmy goats, my family and I went to pick them up. We were armed with several large boxes and a few old sheets -— (you know, to lay down on the floor of the van). Now, the goats were in Filer, and on the sixty miles back to Carey from Filer, like a beacon in the night, stands a Target store. Well, of course, the new goats, a mama, and three babies, needed new collars and chains. While we shopped Target for an hour, the goats got tired of being in the stuffy car, and began to blat. Their nerves

also had gotten the better of them and they began to soil first the boxes, and then the sheets on the floor of the minivan You can imagine the smell. But we got the goats back to Carey with no further incidents. After arriving home, we staked the goats out and they began their weed-eating mission. "Cheaper than a weed eater,” I said to my husband, “and a lot more efficient." This argument soon came back to get my goat, pardon the pun. I thought the stakes I had purchased would keep the poor little things from getting tangled up in them, but I was sorely mistaken. Before the first week was over, my husband came home from work to find one dead goat, strangled by its own chain. Well. I was horrified, and I wondered for the first time if killing an animal, even if by mistake, would send me to the fiery pits of Hell. My husband buried the mother goat in a place where our small children could not find it, and, thankfully, did not say "I told you so." A month or so passed without incident, until the day I walked out my back door and found yet another chainstrangled goat.

Now, I thought the first goat’s death was a fluke, but this....well, this was a moral outrage. Two goats gone. My husband took pity on me and buried the second goat beside the first. I resigned myself to the fact that my place in goat killer Hell awaited me. I set the remaining two goats free to roam our property and eat whatever they wanted. But rather than eating weeds, grass, or hay, they promptly began to nibble on the paint of our house. My parents, after hearing about the deaths of first two goats and seeing the paint-chewed outside of our house, informed me that they were taking the last two goats to the sale in Shoshone. "I guess that's ok," I said with a heavy sigh. "But, how are we going to get them in the trailer, they're so wild we can't catch them," I said. "Ropes," my father explained. So that's what we did. We roped them and hauled them to the sale. I realize that this little story does not make me the poster girl for PETA, but I hope that, in telling it, I've saved someone from ruining their minivan and being condemned to a molten lava, forked horn, fiery goat Hell. Jamey Coulter lives in Carey. ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

profile

Idaho Woman Deserts Kitchen to Build a Bridge By Donna Emert

n the 1930s, Grace Fenton was a small town girl with big aspirations. She hoped to build bridges. “I see no reason why civil engineering should be any more difficult for girls than for boys if they are interested in it,” said young Ms. Fenton in 1935, when she became the first woman at the University of Idaho to major in engineering. She candidly confessed to a student reporter for the UI Argonaut: “I am much happier working around machinery than I would be in the home economics department... Building bridges and dams has always been my ambition.” The article in which these quotes appear was provocatively titled, “Woman Student Deserts Kitchen to Build Bridges.” Grace became the first woman graduate of the UI’s College of

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

PHOTO COURTESY OF UNIVERSITY OF IDAHO ARCHIVES

Sighting in—Grace Fenton uses a surveyor’s transit on an unidentified project. The first woman at UI to take a degree in engineering, Grace helped to pave the way for many, many other women to follow.

profile Engineering, earning a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering in 1938. She was born January 12, 1913 in Santa Rosa, California, and moved to Idaho with her parents at a very young age. Grace was raised on the family homestead on the outskirts of Horseshoe Bend, before the arrival of technological advancements like electricity and indoor plumbing. “Hers was kind of a rags to riches story,” said her daughter, Garcy Miesen. “When her last sister arrived, her father took off, and her mother raised all four girls in Horseshoe Bend. It was a bleak existence. The town helped raise the kids.” The neighbors provided for the Fenton girls in a sometimes unorth-

odox manner aimed at preserving grade at the age of thirteen and at everyone’s dignity. “At Grace’s fourteen headed to Boise to attend memorial, a neighbor who raised high school. She worked for room sheep told us that he always got his and board. In a biographical transheep back script record—sometimes ed by her “I am much happier one or two granddaughworking around were missing,’” ter, Tane machinery than I Miesen recalls Walmsley, with a hearty would be in the home Grace noted: laugh. “My "People economics departgrandmother who influment... Building was a great enced my life, shot.” other than bridges and dams Grace relatives, were has always been started school two families I my ambition.” at the age of worked for in five so that her Boise. They seven-year-old sister would not were interested in other than what have to walk the three miles to I could do for them. They taught town alone. She finished eighth me ways of living in their modern

call: (208) 336.0653 or (800) 655.0653

email: kfleisch@idahomagazine.com

profile world with electricity, cars, radio, etc., that were slow to arrive up Porter Creek in Idaho." While at college she lived with and worked for the family of engineering professor John Wilbur Howard and earned money house keeping, babysitting, working at the library and drafting for the university’s Forestry Department. “It was a struggle to get through,” Grace recalled. “The Howard family urged me along a great deal.” Whether through her own persistence, Professor Howard’s intervention, or both, she later earned a $250 scholarship —significant support in an era when UI’s annual student fees (including tuition) totaled $240. Grace met Garnet Robertson while he was working on a bachelor’s degree in forest products. They married after her graduation, and she went to work for the Idaho State Highways Department. They both served with the Army Corps of Engineers during World War II, working first at Yellowstone Park and later on a top secret mission, designing and building an airstrip at Port Angeles, Wash. The project reflected U.S. fears that the Japanese would deploy submarines into the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

The facility would support a retaliatory air strike in such an event. During wartime the couple also traveled throughout the Pacific Northwest, making surveys of airports and munitions dumps. Post war, the Robertsons helped lay out farm plots for the Columbia Basin irrigation project that resulted from the construction of Grand Coulee Dam, and began a family, which eventually grew to include three daughters: Garcy-Jo (Miesen), G. Kay (Grimstead) and G. Arlene (Tillman). They moved to Ephrata, Washington, where Garnet established an insurance and real estate business. Grace worked as a draftsman for the Bureau of Reclamation while raising her family, serving on the PTA, teaching Sunday school, tending her garden, and mastering crafts from pottery to woodworking —a consummate multi-tasker, ahead of her time. A story in the Grant County Journal, dated July 20, 1950, cited Grace Robertson as the “only lady engineer” employed by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation. Like many engineers, Grace was a problem solver and inventor at heart. She tinkered with a men-

Grace Robertson’s legacy is varied. In addition to establishing a toehold for women in a traditionally male profession …

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tal blueprint for an innovative home heating system for many years, said her daughter, and was annoyed when baseboard heating hit the market before she could invent it herself. Grace Robertson’s legacy is varied. In addition to establishing a toehold for women in a male profession, “She was competitive till the end. She had a great sense of humor. She loved life, and she was the best mom you could ever have,” said Miesen. “She was a very smart lady and instilled a love of learning in all of us. She was a person everybody delighted in knowing. She held no prejudices. I’m very proud of my mother.” In the nearly seven decades since Grace Fenton earned her engineering degree, the numbers of women entering the field has remained relatively low. According to the most recent census figures, women encompass no more than ten percent of the total number of engineering professionals. It may be said, then, that the most enduring thing that Grace Fenton Robertson ever built was her life, doing what she chose to do — which includes her career as an engineer. She may have been the first woman to graduate in engineering from the UI, but the line is long behind her, and her hard work and professionalism have made it that much easier for every woman who follows. Donna Emert lives in Coeur d’Alene.

•

By Bill Corbett

Framed by mountains—Grace from a distance, early winter. PHOTO BY GRANT LAU

pproximately twenty-three miles south and thirty-two miles east of Pocatello near the center of Gem Valley, is a quiet little mile high community, population 1,100, known as Grace. Through the 1930s and ‘40s, Grace was a bustling community of about five hundred people supporting most of the services needed to carry on a full life. It was home to “The First National Bank of Grace,” three grocery stores, a general mercantile, (which included one of the grocery stores) a drugstore, three cafes, a movie theater, two pool halls, a clothing store, a dry goods store, two prosperous car agencies, a dentist, a doctor, two blacksmith shops, an implement dealer, two service stations, two barber shops, a hardware store, and two churches.

Since that time, Grace has undergone change, as have many small towns following World War II. What had been a thriving and prosperous rural American town fell onto hard times losing many of its businesses. Some to fire; others simply to the changing times. With the advent of better roads, more reliable automobiles, and the growing quest for moving about after four years of being quarantined by gas shortages during the war, people all across America began to travel to the larger communities to do their shopping and other business. Others moved to larger towns in pursuit of better paying jobs which only exacerbated the declining business climate in smaller communities. This decline continued for a decade or two in Grace, after which came a degree of stabilization.

PHOTO BY GRANT LAU

Grace—The early years

race has an interesting early history, carrying with it many struggles and hardships. Were it not for a “last chance” that the settlers took in order to save their farms, this quiet community might not exist today. Research suggests the first settlers may have been a small colony from West Jordan, Utah, who, late in the nineteenth century, settled in the north end of Gentile Valley, later to be renamed Gem Valley. With the building of a bridge in 1893 spanning the Bear River, a community emerged. How the village acquired the name “Grace” is an interesting tale in itself. In 1895, the federal government established a post office located in the home of David D. Sullivan, appointing Mr. Sullivan as postmaster. In order for a community to have a post office, it needed an official name. Legend has it this problem was solved by Land Office Attorney Frank Bean. He suggested naming the town after his wife, whose name was Grace. The north end of Gem Valley was more arid than the bottomland farther to the south, which made it difficult to

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raise anything other than a few meager bushels per acre of dry farm small grain crops. Conditions rendered it nearly impossible to raise enough hay to carry livestock through the winter, and these settlers realized that if they were to remain on their homesteads, Mother Nature needed a little assistance in hydrating the land. If they could get water to this land, the settlers were confident that bountiful crops could be raised in this area of the valley. A plan for diverting water from Bear River onto this dry, but otherwise fertile, soil was developed. The quest for transferring this life-giving “liquid gold” to the arid fields began in 1895. The ensuing years brought with them many failures and disappointments, but the project was finally completed in 1902. This final attempt was their last remaining chance. Time was running out, and many of the settlers had exhausted most of their financial resources. Failure would literally bring about the abandonment of their homesteads. Hence, the canal company was registered and incorporated as the Last Chance Irrigation Co., later changed to Last Chance Canal Co. (LTD.) Upon visiting this site, one might think that these early pioneers were able to make water

PHOTO FROM BOOK “GEMS OF OUR VALLEY”

OPPOSITE: Watercourse in winter—Black Canyon, a view to the north.

PHOTO FROM BOOK “GEMS OF THE VALLEY”

ABOVE & INSET: Two views of the flume—Above is the arch of the Last Chance Canal Co’s irrigation flume as it crosses Bear River. To the left is the same arch, viewed from above. Waste wood can be seen surrounding the flume on both sides.

run uphill into a waiting flume spanning a gorge where the river flowed one hundred feet below. Accountings of this project say it was touch and go right up until the end. One of the stipulations of their claim stated that these filers had to have their water delivered to the land by a certain date. Approximately two weeks before the deadline, they still had about 1,100 feet to go. It was February and the ground was frozen rock hard, making any kind of excavation impossible. If they didn’t make the deadline, all would be lost. Requesting an extension was not an option, because another company was waiting in the wings to file on the homesteaders’ claim if they defaulted. Undaunted, and out of sheer desperation, these stouthearted souls came up with the idea of making a snow ditch. They ploughed an 1100 foot ditch in the snow, and running a ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

PHOTO FROM BOOK “GEMS OF THE VALLEY”

small amount of water through, letting it freeze, enabled them to create an ice ditch that put the water over the right of way and onto the land before the deadline, thus saving their filing. Later, when the ground thawed, they were able to complete a permanent ditch. This project also necessitated a tunnel being bored through a portion of a solid rock mountain to get water to the flume that would carry it across the river. Morrison-Knudsen Co. was the general contractor, and two brothers were hired by M-K to excavate the tunnel. According to legend, these two brothers got into a squabble during the early stages of the project. Realizing the project would progress faster if they worked separately, each started at opposite ends, digging toward the middle where they were to meet. Miraculously, they did meet at about the halfway point, with the two tunnels matching up with nearly exact precision. The tunnel also has a wonderment about it, in that, to this day, still causes people to scratch their heads. The story is that, standing at either end, light can be seen from the opposite end. But when one stands at the center of the tunnel, it’s as black as night, and no light can be seen at either end from there. The Last Chance Canal’s claim to fame throughout the West is that it was built with neither federal assistance, nor outside capital, with the exception of loans that were later paid back. Another thing that adds to its uniqueness is that the Last Chance Canal Co. does not, itself, deliver water directly to the shareholders; but rather, it delivers

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water to five laterals owned by independent companies, which, in turn, deliver water to the farmers. With life-giving water now on the land, Grace and its fortunes began to grow. The young community became the hub of commerce for the valley when several agricultural industries moved into the surrounding area. Among them was the livestock industry, consisting of sheep, cattle, and hogs. There were cash grain crops, and located along the eastern foothills, were logging enterprises and lumber mills. The dairy industry brought cheese factories located in three different locations — Thatcher, Cove, and Grace— and with the arrival of The Telluride Power Co. in 1906, many new jobs were also created. In 1913, a railroad spur arrived on the scene making conditions viable for a flourmill and a grain elevator to locate in Grace. Grace was officially incorporated in 1915, and by 1916, the community supported two cafes, four clothing stores, two furniture stores, two pool halls, two drug stores, one confectionery, four grocery stores, two grain elevators, one flourmill, a printing office, a real estate office, two theaters and dance halls, three lumber yards, a bank, a telephone office, and two livery stables. As a matter of perspective, at Fred’s Café, one could buy a full course meal for thirty-five cents. As the years passed, Grace received running water service, electricity, and had its own newspaper. As it was with many communities, large and small, in America’s early history, Grace had its share of fires, burning many of the early buildings to the ground.

Grace—Mid 20th Century and Beyond

PHOTO FROM BOOK “GEMS OF THE VALLEY”

oday, although it’s not likely Grace will ever again have as many businesses as it did during the late 1930s, 1940s, and into the 1950s, efforts are being made to revitalize the business climate there to some degree. One of the goals is to buy more land for industrial park expansion in order to attract more light industry to the area. Other goals include city beautification, development of area tourist attractions, and expansion of the infrastructure to accommodate additional growth, all the while striving to maintain the relaxed rural life-style that small town residents so highly covet. Grace is home to two light industries that sell to both national and international markets. Heritage Safe Co. began in Grace in 1993, and under the skilled tutelage of co-founders Ron and Troy Nielson, has since grown from its small beginning into a multi-million dollar company with sales in all of the lower forty-eight states, with

OPPOSITE: Man and machine — Charles W. Hubbard poses with his thresher. Too expensive for individual farmers to own and maintain, threshers were generally hired for the length of the job. ABOVE LEFT: Team of oxen—JJ Cherry farm prior to WWI, with Bruce Cherry standing in mid-frame. ABOVE RIGHT: Dry goods for sale—The Roghaar store at the turn of the century. Mr. Roghaar stands in the foreground left.

the majority of their sales in the East. It even has some international markets. Heritage Safe Company’s employment rate is seasonal, but the yearly average is sixty-five to eighty-five employees. Current production may reach to as many as forty-five safes per day and they are 100% American made. With the exception of the locks, which are also American made, everything is fabricated and assembled at the Grace plant. According to information printed by the company: “Every Heritage Safe comes standard with sixty minute fire protection, velour interior, and the industry’s best warranty. Heritage Safe is vying for the fifth largest position in the safe industry.” The company has 500 dealers nationally. Bio Tech Nutrients is the other light industry that has chosen Grace for its base of operations. They offer an alternative to traditional fertilizers. Their product enhances plant growth by copying the plant’s own sap makeup using carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. They, too, have nationwide markets ranging from Washington in the Northwest, to Florida in the Southeast, as well as through the Midwest, Southwest, and Rocky Mountain states. Their customers include farmers across the nation, and major PGA golf courses. Six full time workers in Grace manufacture the products. Part of the Grace Chamber of Commerce beautification program includes sidewalk benches, flowerpots, and trees, and improving the signage on the north and south entrances into town. Grace is also part of the Pioneer Historic Byway. Plans for identifying three sites, Niter Ice Caves south of Grace along Highway 34, The Black Canyon, approximately a mile west of Grace, and the Last Chance Canal north and east of town, are in the works. Last year was the first of what the chamber of commerce hopes to be a growing annual affair. They started an “Old Timer” tractor show featuring vintage tractors, engines of every sort, and old cars. A popular highlight of the show is the “slow tractor race,” with the slowest tractor winning. The first show was in late September. This year, they moved it to June and plan to make it a June event hereafter. ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

H O M E T O W N Grace is a town where I spent the first thirteen years of my life, from 1935, the year I was born, until the fall of 1948, when the family moved to Soda Springs. Those were happy years, catching carp in the Last Chance Company canal; swimming in the “23”, a swimming hole in the Bear River where it ran through a portion of Black Canyon located a mile and a quarter west of Grace; fishing the Black Canyon with my dad’s friend, Fred Aktagwa; playing baseball in the village square, and horseback riding in the country. During the winter months, we’d go sleigh riding on the snow packed village streets, ice skating on the frozen canal that ran along the north edge of town, and listening to Christmas Carols sung by Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Gene Autry, and the Andrews Sisters beaming out over loudspeakers hung on the front of Roghaar’s General Mercantile store.

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Bill Corbett

LEFT: View down Main—Main Street, uptown Grace, taken December 2006. OPPOSITE: View from the house— The Gem Valley Performing Arts Center mainstage.

PHOTO BY GRANT LAU

Grace is also home to The Gem Valley Community Performing Arts Center. It was originally built as an auditorium for Grace High School, but now serves as a cultural arts center for the entire county as well. It is an outstanding facility with state of the art sound and lighting systems. As it was with the enterprising early settlers of this valley when they were faced with problems that needed a solution, so it is with the enterprising citizens of today. They realized, early on, that maintaining this structure as a viable enterprise was going to require something extra, because the regular one or two plays a year produced by the high school theater group, as well as

school assemblies, could not sustain it. The Gem Valley Performing Arts Committee (GVPAC) was organized, and thus began something new for the residents of Caribou County and the Gem Valley: live performances by outside professional entertainers. They have a regular concert season with season tickets available for those patrons who wish to subscribe. The 2006-2007 Season, beginning September 9th and continuing through May 5th, features Celtic performances by Leaping Lulu and Craicmore, Contemporary Western singer Frank Rose, productions by the Grace High School Theater Department, T minus 5, an Acoustic Male Vocal Quintet, and Contemporary Acoustic Guitarist & Composer, Scott Balsai, just to name a few. Production costs for these high quality shows usually exceeds ticket revenues, so local contributions and sponsorships, consisting of time, money, and promotion, help the committee to continue attracting outstanding talent to this beautiful five hundred seat theater. If one is looking for an interesting place to visit during summer vacation travels, or a quiet peaceful place to raise children or to live out his or her remaining years, why not have a look at the Gem Valley and Grace? Bill Corbett . who grew up in Grace, lives in Pocatello. Author’s note: The source of information pertaining to The Last Chance Canal and the early history of Grace was obtained from the book Gems Of Our Valley, copyright, 1977, Grace Literary Club. The photographs of the early years of Grace were also obtained from this publication.

•

Feb .

Scott Balsai, Contemporary Acoustic Guitarist, Gem Valley Performing Arts Center

Mar.

BYU Idaho Dance Alliance, Gem Valley Performing Arts Center

Apr.

Easter Egg Hunt, Fairgrounds

May

tba

High School Rodeo, Fairgrounds

4-5

Into the Woods, GHS Theater Department, Gem Valley Performing Arts Center

Jun.

Junior Rodeo, Fairgrounds

tba

Good Ol’ Days Tractor Show & Fair, Fairgrounds

All Summer

Trails West Roping Events, Fairgrounds

Horse Clinics, Fairgrounds

Jul

31-8/4 Caribou Fair Rodeo, Fairgrounds

Sep.-Dec.

Monthly performances TBA at the Gem Valley Performing Arts Center

PHOTO CREDIT

For more information contact the Grace Chamber of Commerce at (208) 425-3912 or visit online at www.graceidaho.com

fathers and sons

My Dad’s Milk Toast By Dean Worbois

ack in the good old days, my sisters and I walked four entire blocks to school even when Boise was socked in with two inches of snow, and our mother cooked three meals a day. Our dad ate nothing but meat, potatoes, and green beans, but there were usually dishes of exotic vegetables like beets and squash that got passed around the table. Despite Mom’s enthusiastic encouragement to “try some,” the dishes holding these curiosities got smaller and smaller until, in truth, they were only a side dish for Mother’s meal. Today I can’t get enough beets or squash, and I only wish I could compare them to Mom’s creations. But I can attest to her capacity to create endless varieties of excellent meats and potatoes. She was one great cook. What was routine, of course, gets tucked in memory’s back pantry when compared to events that were rare. On the table of my childhood memories, those rare events were the few times my mother was away from the house long enough so Dad had to feed the kids. Ours was a big Hotpoint electric

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range, I suppose from 1947 when we breaker? That’s when I call the pros. moved into the house on 29th Street Two great features awaited my in Boise — a location just twenty growing to where I could see over the blocks from the capitol of Idaho yet top of the Hotpoint. Best of all was outside the city limits and featuring the fantastic red light in the middle of dirt streets until the late 1960s. The all the knobs and dials. A chrome Hotpoint’s most shocking feature was Hotpoint “H,” surrounded by inwarda fuse located just inside the warming twisting swirls, was laid over the little drawer to the left of the oven. Rather, red circle. It was cool as the dickens I should say the most shocking thing when the light was off, the shiny was the lack of a fuse while a parent chrome dancing on the deep, dull red. was searching for one to replace it. I When the light was on, shining don’t remember much about being as bright red through the dancing “H,” it tall as my knees was nothing are now but I do short of spectacOn the table of my remember being How did childhood memories, ular. just tall enough anyone ever those rare events to see inside that think of such a were the few times curious hole. I clever way to remember watch- my mother was away indicate that an ing my finger as it from the house long electric appliance went exploring. in use? enough so Dad had was Not And I remember as cool to feed the kids. being on my little but definitely butt on the hard more curious, linoleum-tile floor, looking at that with a bit of a lift and a twist Dad curious hole several feet away and would drop the back left burner knowing I wasn’t going to do that down into the range. Then he’d rumagain. To this day I’ll change a light mage under the counter for a large, switch without bothering to turn off strange-shaped aluminum pot and fill the power, but wiring into a circuit it with beans and water. Miracle of

fathers and sons Perhaps it was the two inches of snow this fall. Perhaps a memory of my folks. Whatever the reason, I got to thinking of Dad’s milk toast and decided a treat was in

TOP: Necessary equipment — Milk toast requires that toast be made, which requires a toaster. MIDDLE: A heaping helping — Leave the toast in the bowl too long, you have soup; just long enough, and the toast retains its texture. RIGHT: Ready for the main event — Milk, pepper, and just enough butter, waiting for the bread.

PHOTO BY DEAN WORBOIS

miracles, this strange pot fit perfectly into the hole in the back of the Hotpoint and from this hole in the stove we’d eat lunch and dinner until our mom returned to cook meats and potatoes. Thirty years after his death I honor Dad with pots of white or Navy beans simmering in a countertop crock pot, today’s version of that recessed cookery in my childhood’s Hotpoint. But we digress. We’re here to chat about my dad’s milk toast. While beans were the staple of our table in Mother’s absence, the late night snack was milk toast.

PHOTO BY DEAN WORBOIS

order. Being a bachelor, the first order of business was a trip to the store for bread and milk. Having to shop for bread and milk before making milk toast is not the only difference between my making milk toast and the milk toast my sisters and I ate many years ago. Before homogenization, we had milk delivered from Triangle Dairy in bottles that featured a round bulb at the top. Cream rose into this bulb and folks had the choice of shaking the cream into the milk or skimming it off for whipping or to use as heavy

©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

fathers and sons

PHOTO BY DEAN WORBOIS

cream. My mother actually did skim off the cream one fateful day. Dad had been raised on milk still warm from the family cows. Thanks to the timing of my conception I was not there for the apparently animated discussion of what milk should be, but I do

PHOTO BY DEAN WORBOIS

know milk in our house always had all the cream it could hold. Rich, creamy milk was made even more “dairy-licious” with at least one large (OK. Make that two or three—and make them large) pats of real butter. The pepper shaker was vigorously agitated until the top of the milk turned half black. All heated until the butter melted in a pan on the right front burner of the Hotpoint. Always on high heat, the milk almost scorching. And then toast, glorious dark brown white sandwich bread toast, broken in large chunks and dropped just long enough in the milk to still have texture when it was held in a big spoon and blown on to just tolerably hot enough to put in

TOP: Needs the right feel — If it is toasted correctly and buttered efficiently, pretty much any bread will do. This toast appears excellent.

RIGHT: Meal, ready to eat — The buttered toast added to the milk, extra butter added to the mix, awaiting consumption.

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PHOTO BY DEAN WORBOIS

MIDDLE: All over but the shouting — Just enough left in the bowl to know for sure what it had held.

fathers and sons the mouth. ous, chunks of cool butter on each There was plenty of pepper slice of bread sure rounded that left in the bottom of the bowl milk toast off. when everything had been Today I use skim milk. The savored and slurped. One of my butter is only two pats. The pepper experiments at eating all the pepis fresh ground. The milk and the per was an butter and the early lesson in pepper find themRich, creamy milk overkill. selves in a bowl was made even A dissatisand tossed in the more “dairy-licious” fied youth, I microwave. The with at least one soon figured bread is a heavy large (OK. Make that out my own whole-grain withimprovement two or three—and out the extra on Dad’s milk chunks of butter. make them large) toast. I always Even given these pats of real butter. added to the changes, I’ve toast before it reverted to the got dipped in the hot, buttered and perfect late night snack. Warm and peppered milk. Some good, generrich and spicy. My dad’s milk toast.

I’ve been eating so much of it my dusty toaster gave out and I find myself with a fancy-dancy new pop-up toasting device that thaws, toasts, and reheats bread, bagels, and pastries. The instructions never once refer to making “toast,” only “toasted foods.” It is round and all shiny chrome with art deco accent lines. And, in case you don’t notice the glowing elements, it features one real cool red light to let you know this electric appliance is doing its job. All is perfect. All, except... Ah. There we go. The bowl of hot milk and bread always seems to need an extra pat of butter. Dean Worbois lives in Boise.

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point of view

Old-Timer By Les Tanner

couple of years ago, during one of my annual spring trips down to Brownlee Reservoir to see what was going on, fishing-wise, I ran out of bread and a couple of other essentials. There’s a small store down that way that sells bait and gas and food to guys like me who have let the prospect of catching fish get in the way of proper trip-planning, so I drove over to re-supply. Another car had pulled in just before I got there, and it proved to be carrying two other fishermen who were, I guessed, in the same boat as I, no pun intended. I was just a few feet behind them by the time they got to the door, and as one of them turned to enter, he glanced in my direction. “How are things going, oldtimer?” he asked, holding the door open. I turned around, of course, in order to see who had come up behind me that he might be talking to, and was surprised to see no one at all.

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Poor fellow must need glassbread and other things I’d gone es, I thought to myself. There’s to the store for in the first place. nobody here but me. Old-timer? Old-timer? How Then a light went on. Believe dare he speak to me as though I it or not, the guy was talking to me. were at least twenty years older Me! He really did need glasses. than I am. (Being at least twenty It took me a few seconds to years older than I am is my rule get my tongue in order, and then of thumb when it comes to I realized I didn’t have an approdetermining who is, and who is priate not, an oldresponse. I timer.) Poor fellow must need didn’t even For pity’s glasses, I thought to have an inapsake, the guy I propriate see in the mirmyself. There’s response. nobody here but me. ror every I couldn’t morning has Then a light went very well tell changed hardly on. Believe it or not, him the truth, at all since I namely that I’d was twentythe guy was talking been having a one or so. to me. Me! swell time and All right, was feeling I’m fibbing pretty chipper until he’d asked. here. Where a nice head of dark I ended up mumbling somehair used to reside, there is either thing incoherent, and proceeded none at all or a few wisps of gray, into the store, where I bought a stringy stuff. And I know from sad half-dozen crappie jigs and a experience that, should I try growquart of orange juice, neither of ing a beard again, it surely which I needed or wanted. I wouldn’t be the thick, wiry, auburn came back later, after I was sure bush I’d hatched in times past. they were gone, and bought the But I do have the same

point of view bright brown eyes that have always looked back at me. At least I think I do. Maybe I’d better go get my glasses so I can check that out. I was watching the local news on TV a number of years ago when they began showing a short clip about the college where I taught. Freshman enrollment had increased considerably that fall, and since there was no Hollywood star on trial that week, and Brad and Jennifer were still in grade school, this had been deemed worthy of thirty seconds of coverage. There were several shots of the campus,

as well as a few taken inside the buildings. One of the latter showed a member of the faculty standing at a blackboard in front of a class. There was a window directly behind

him, and the light from the window reflecting off his head was nearly blinding. My first thought was, Boy, is that guy bald. My second thought was, Hey, that’s ME! I’d noticed a guy with a television camera standing in the doorway as I was lecturing to my calculus class that morning, but I’d forgotten about it until that very second. Of course, there are other signs that I’m not a spring chicken any more (if I ever was; but we needn’t go into that right here.). I hate to drop things on the floor, for example. That is due in part to the fact that I can’t see whatever I’ve

point of view dropped while I’m still standing, really remember for sure — tells of without my bifocals on anyway, the morning he woke up and discovand in part to the strange fact ered that the whole world was fuzzy. that the floor is a lot farther It bothered him, of course, but it away than it used to be. I’m pretbothered him more that no one else ty sure I haven’t grown taller, at seemed to notice. least not that much. When I broke down several Mainly, though, it’s because, years ago and admitted to needonce I’ve lowered myself way ing glasses, I was completely down there to pick up the stuff, I shocked to discover that our lithave a tendency to stay there for tle poodle, Tippy, whom we’d had a while, trying to decide if it’s for at least ten years by then, worth the effort to get back up actually had individual hairs all again. Maybe I’ll just wait there over her. Before that, I’d assumed until my wife drops something. she was just black. I’ve noticed, too, that it Other folks have problems, doesn’t take much at all to give too, of course. My wife, the poor me a thrill these days, such as dear, doesn’t speak as loudly or as turning the phone book to the clearly as she used to. I’ve tried to exact page that contains the encourage her to do something entry I’m looking for, on the first about it many times, but so far I try. I mean, how cool is that? haven’t been able to hear exactly And even though it’s taken what she says in response to my me several suggestions summers to I often fished with a guy on how she work out the might who told me that he details, nowimprove. really enjoyed fishing adays when I That’s probawith me. I was quite flatget done bly best. with mowShe’s not tered until he told me ing the very the only one that I was the only fellast strip of with a low he knew who spent lawn, I find speech more time looking for myself right impediment, bushes than he did. back at the either. Many, porch where if not most I keep the of the people mower. Not always, but three with whom I attempt to contimes out of four. When I do, I verse, seem to be similarly afflictfeel that my day is made. ed. To keep from embarrassing One of my favorite writers — I them by remarking on their conthink it’s Pat McManus, but I don’t dition, I just ignore a lot of what

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they attempt to say. I find that the latter saves me quite a bit of embarrassment, too. Before I realized that all those people couldn’t enunciate well, I was answering a lot of questions I hadn’t been asked.

Examples: — Q: “What’s the score?” — A: “Probably.” — Q: “Who’s that person over there?” —A: “ Tomorrow afternoon.” — Q: “When do you plan to go to Boise next?” —A: “No, I think it’s your serve.” There are a couple of timerelated phenomena that bear mentioning here. Has anyone else but me — or should that be “but I”? — noticed that it isn’t nearly as long between Thanksgiving and Christmas as it used to be? Heck, the week before Christmas took forever-and-a-half when I was in my kidhood. Nowadays, the time from one Christmas to the next Thanksgiving isn’t as long as that week used to be. And folks seem to mature a lot faster now than in the old days. My urologist, who is barely out of high school himself, has a daughter who will be a sophomore this fall. In college. Speaking of urology — and I

point of view know I probably shouldn’t — I had a little plumbing work done a few years ago. It was worth it, too. For the three or four years prior to helping the doctor pay for his latest yacht or whatever, I’d spend half the time on my fishing trips looking for bushes. In fact, in those pre-plumbing days, I often fished with a guy who told me that he really enjoyed fishing with me. I was quite flattered until he told me that I was the only fellow he knew who spent more time looking for bushes than he did. Last but not least in this litany of things negative about oldtimer-ness, I must mention memory, or the failure of same. There are, as you well know, many jokes concerning this normal facet of the aging process. Here are three examples: “You know that you’re getting old if you can’t remember the rest of a ‘You know that you’re getting old’ joke.” To this point, I’ve made it sound as though I’m against getting old, and that maybe I’d reverse the process if I could. Not true, not by a long shot. Would I want the body I had when I was eighteen? That skinny, pimply, out-of-control hunk of bone and sinew? Nope. How about the hair? Nope, there as well. I’ve not spent a nickel on Brylcreem or Head-andShoulders for at least thirty years, and darned little on haircuts.

Eyesight? I can see better now with my bifocals (when I can find them) than I ever could in my whole previous life. Hearing? I don’t want to be kept awake all night by unhappy furnaces or cheerful crickets, or to worry over the myriad of squeaks and whistles that, or so my wife claims, our cars are constantly emitting. (I will admit to having been somewhat unsettled last week when I came upon a truly monstrous rattlesnake while I was fishing. His tail-full of rattles was going full blast — and I didn’t hear a sound.) Well, then, how about my good looks? Hey, one can’t retrieve what one never had. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t want all that stuff even if I could combine it with the wisdom that I’ve accrued over nearly threequarters of a century. That wisdom has kept me out of fights, and dens of iniquity, and political conventions. It has allowed me to smile when I don’t feel like it, to say “I’m sorry” whether I am or not, and to admit I’m wrong (should that ever be the case). It has encouraged me to take the blame for being careless, instead of calling up that TV lawyer who promises he’ll get me the million dollars I deserve because some guy planted a tree in the exact spot where I was destined to try to ride my bike thirty years later.

It has caused me to stop and smell the roses, although not as often as I should, and to take my time when I’m getting ready to go fishing. (“Haste makes waste” is how the old saying goes. My own version was — and still is, upon occasion — “Haste makes Les leave the box of food on the workbench in the garage.”) It has helped me to say “No thanks” even before the telemarketer or door-to-door magazine salesperson has finished asking the question, and to say “ Thank you, and have a good day” — and mean it — to the sales clerk who is clearly not having one. And it’s made me not worry so much about what people think of me when I wear odd clothes or behave strangely in public. I must point out one other thing, and that is this: Growing old is not the same as growing up. In years past, after our two kids were finally out of the house for good, if my wife were asked by a new acquaintance if she had any children, her reply would often be, “ Two grown and flown, but I still have one at home.” The same would apply now, and I’m not at all ashamed to admit to being that “one at home.” There’s still a kid inside this fast-wrinkling shell. It’s fun to look for balls along the golf course on my way to the library, or four-leafed clovers in the lawn when I take a break from mowing. ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

point of view It’s cool to see how long I can make a penny spin, or if I can stack one more plastic bowl on top of the cereal box. I still holler “Yes!” when my partner scores the winning point in racquetball, and when my hat lands on the arm of the very chair that I’m aiming for, clear across the room. I like to tease my wife, and to chase butterflies, and to skip

stones across a pond (as long as it doesn’t scare the fish.) I like splashing in the irrigation water, and trying to decipher license-plate logos, and throwing sticks for dogs to chase. I like watching people at the mall, and guessing what time it is, and standing out in our back yard on a cool fall night, pajama-clad but barefoot, trying to spot Orion, and Jupiter, and the Big Dipper, and maybe a

Old-timer? Well, I suppose that does describe me pretty well, on the outside, at least.

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shooting star or two. Old-timer? Well, I suppose that does describe me pretty well, on the outside, at least. But I’ve got most of my teeth, I can catch fish on days when lots of other guys can’t, I still laugh a lot, and I’ve got a wife who I love like crazy, and not just because she’s a great cook and has put up with me for fifty years this coming Saturday. Our mechanic says he thinks my fishing car’s good for another 100,000 miles, too. I know I am. Les Tanner lives in Caldwell.

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family matters

Reconnecting Taking the long trip home By Ann Clizer

iving away from home takes its home. At night all the doors toll in the best of circumstancleading out of St. Luke’s were es, and ours were not the best. locked and guarded by uniAfter my eleven-year-old daughter formed security officers. When I suffered a severe head injury, I lay in the fold-out chair-bed stayed with her at St. Luke’s courting sleep, I listened to quiet Rehabilitation Institute, two hours shift talk among the nurses, faint from our mountain home. Each sirens on city streets, the day Maya worked with a half-dozwhoosh of vented hot air, and en different therapists, trying to “phhtt, phhtt, phhtt” from the reclaim lost functions. As the stagtiny pump feeding green liquid gering practicalities of dealing with into Maya’s stomach. I thought Maya’s injury about the gained clarity, I I paced the hallways, noises I missed our home would hear at longing for the trails more and more. I home: the on my mountain, knew she did too, hoot of an rocks and dirt but the exhausting owl, wind labor dominated underfoot, the press nudging her attention. She of a half-buried root lanky lodgepecked away at the pole pines, a wad against the sole list of goals: dress chorus of of my boot. yourself, walk coyotes, or down the hall and rain pelting back, write your own name. I kept the metal roof. I napped in the the slow pace with her, willing two-hour intervals between vital myself not to reach out and help. signs checks. Four weeks dragged by, and When I couldn’t sleep, I paced Maya ticked off her accomplishthe hallways, longing for the trails ments each Friday. But nobody on my mountain, rocks and dirt would tell us when we could go underfoot, the press of a half-bur-

ied root wad against the sole of my boot. Early mornings, I would slip outside and tip my face to the sky, suck in deep breaths of chilly air, but I didn’t linger. I knew Maya would soon wake and look for me beside her bed, reach out for my hand, and gift me with a serene smile I had never seen before her injury. Yet my emptiness grew. I needed to go home. Other children in rehab spent nights with only nurses in attendance, but I couldn’t bear to think of leaving my daughter that alone. My mother agreed to take my place at Maya’s side for one night. “I’ll get your sweat pants and those blue shorts,” I said. She could wear her own clothing, but needed things that were easy to get on and off with one hand. Maya turned away from me, her mouth set in a frown. “Do you want your pillow? Your art tablet? The time will go fast, you’ll see.” Secretly, I hoped it wasn’t true. On the two-hour drive home, heading deeper into the mountains of northern Idaho, I worried. Maya ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

family matters

PHOTO COURTESY OF ANN CLIZER

Maya and her mom —The author with her daughter, taken within the last eighteen months.

still hadn’t regained her language skills—would her grandmother know when she wanted to work her jigsaw puzzle, or which set of felt-tip markers was her favorite? But the tightness in my chest disappeared when I drove into the clearing around our cabin. I stood in the driveway for ten minutes, inhaling crisp mountain air and listening to the staccato of a woodpecker drilling the cedar that guarded our compost pile.

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

Grabbing an armload of firewood gernails. Withered pea vines and from the shed, I headed inside, brown strawberry leaves radiated a feeling the familpristine beauty I iar weight and [Maya] rubbed the had never before press of rough birch bark between noticed. I filled a bark against my leather pouch the thumb and muscles. I sighed with natural treaforefinger of her out a breath sures from outleft hand. Her eyes side the cabin. deeper than I knew I’d been That night, I filled with tears. holding. snuggled against “Home is still On that my husband’s there, baby ... afternoon, waitchest with only ing for Chris, I moonlight filtercrawled around in the garden, diging in through our uncurtained ging dahlia bulbs and reveling in window. I listened to trees creaking the grit of rich dirt beneath my finin the wind. I slept.

family matters Next morning’s return trip seemed to take forever. Finally, I galloped through the hallways of St. Luke’s, loaded with goodies from home. I entered Maya’s room where she sat up in bed listening to her grandmother reading aloud from “Stormy, Misty’s Foal.” “Look what I brought,” I said to Maya, when I’d settled in beside her. I opened the leather pouch and laid each piece on the over-bed tray: a pine cone, a papery curl of birch bark, a handful of grey moss that hangs from tamarack limbs, a chunk of white granite peppered in black, the tip of a hemlock bough, a heavy clod of clay earth, a sliver of cedar from the kindling pile, and a gray

Stellar’s jay feather. Maya handled everything, picking at the granite with a fingernail, sniffing the cedar and balling up the moss. She rubbed the birch bark between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. Her eyes filled with tears. “Home is still there, baby,” I said, closing my hand around hers. “We’ll make it back. You can be sure of that.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and jammed the birch bark into her pocket. Five weeks later, Maya was released. She would continue outpatient therapy for years, but on that grey Friday in November, a week before Thanksgiving, we

arrived back on our mountain. It was everything we’d dreamed of all those nights in the institution: fallen birch leaves mingled with tamarack needles on the damp ground, the scolding of squirrels and the shrill call of a Stellar’s jay, the smell of wet moss and the feel of dirt beneath our feet. Maya stamped around the rough yard, kicking at rocks, tripping and laughing, clutching at my arm for balance. I couldn’t think of a time I’d seen her happier, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt a deeper joy myself. We didn’t go inside until we were good and cold. Ann Clizer lives in Sandpoint.

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Scots Revisit the Coeur dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Alene By Jack McNeel

hen a team of Scottish golfers flew to northern Idaho in 2005 to compete with members of the Coeur d’Alene Tribe at its Circling Raven Golf Club, it was an unlikely renewal of an unusual friendship rooted nearly two hundred years ago. The alliance began in 1809 when fur traders from David Thompson’s party made first contact with the Schitsu’umsh as the tribe

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

was then known. These traders were Scotsmen with names like Joco Finlay and Finnan McDonald. It wasn’t a total surprise to the native people as a few tribal members had seen the Lewis and Clark Expedition from a distance, had seen a few mountain men, and it had been foretold long before, but this was the first permanent contact with the non-native world. The relationship that followed was a good one, but after two centuries the memory of it had nearly disappeared.

On parade—Members of the Coeur d’Alene Tribe and Scottish bagpipers mark the renewal of an ancient friendship. The recent reunion that the Scottish team’s secretary called “awesome,” has reestablished that bond and discussions are underway for tribal members to journey to Scotland for repeat matches. But first, let’s look at that longago first meeting. Cliff SiJohn can best tell that ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

story. Cliff is an elder in the Coeur lished. David Thompson’s party “One day there was a visitor. d’Alene Tribe and serves as had dropped down from Canada Somebody came. We had heard Director of Cultural Awareness for into what is now northern Idaho. about them. Circling Raven had the Coeur d’Alene Casino. He’s a Cliff tells how a runner from the told us almost sixty years before historian who Kootenai Tribe that they were coming. He saw learned the had alerted his them in a vision, the suyapi, the “One day there was a story of that ancestors about white men. visitor. Somebody came. first contact the coming of “A man by the name of Joco We had heard about from his these newcomFinlay arrived, an advance man them. Circling Raven had elders when ers and how for David Thompson, the leader he was a child. told us almost sixty years they wanted to of the expedition from the “We had trade for animal Northwest Fur Company before that they were no TV, no pelts. His attempting to open up the coming. He saw them in a radio. There ancestors were Columbia for trade. When he vision, the suyapi, the was a big room part of the came the warriors spotted him white men.” with beds all northern band and they came running towards around where of the tribe and him to confront him. the uncles and aunts and kids slept. it was that group that made the “Joco, they said, put his rifle At night they would tell stories, one initial contact. straight up. Black Wolf and his after another after another. That’s Cliff related that contact to brother circled him to see if he had where my brother and I learned the thousands who congregated courage. They said Joco Finlay what we know now,” Cliff said. at the Julyamsh PowWow during stood in one place, his horse cir “Grandfather was born in the summer of 2006 as two cling, his arm up with his weapon. 1873. He died when my father Indian riders on horseback conBlack Wolf looked him over and was six years old. My grandmothverged on a mountain man leadasked him in sign, ‘Who are you?’ er was very strong in her tradiing a horse loaded with furs Finlay answered, ‘I am suyapi. I tions and culture. My step-grandreenacting the first meeting. come here to trade.’ father was a great orator. Our stories go back to before white men came, stories of raids into Blackfeet and Crow country,” he recalled. “We’ve learned our language from our parents and grandparents. My children know their language and now are teaching their children the language, the songs.” This knowledge, learned at the feet of his elders who had learned it in a similar way, has provided Cliff the backABOVE, LEFT TO RIGHT: In full regalia —Riders appear at the event in traditional ground to represent his tribe as dress. Skirling pipes—Spokane’s pipers add to the magic. historian and spokesman. He heard the tales of the OPPOSITE: Opening festivities—Cliff SiJohn is the Director of Cultural Scotsmen coming, of the trading Awareness for the Coeur d’Alene Casino and a noted tribal historian. and the trading posts they estab-

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

“Black Wolf asked him, ‘What is in your heart?’ Finlay answered that he came here to trade in peace and friendship and had gifts for the chiefs for he was the one to ask for permission of the chiefs to come into this territory. “Black Wolf looked at him and said, ‘Follow me. We will take you to the chiefs in the village and we will talk and we will smoke and we’ll see if your heart is true.’ Finlay nods and they begin to leave this little meadow. “Neither one of their people would ever be the same,” Cliff continued. “The sun set that day on an era that was thousands and thousands of years old.” Soon after the tribe arrived with sixteen canoes loaded with furs and met the David Thompson party on Pend Oreille Lake. The traders established friendly, mutually beneficial trading posts and stayed for several years. The Indians traded animal pelts and horses for iron utensils, knives and guns, all of which made life a little easier for the native people. Idaho’s first nonIndian structure was one of those posts named Kullyspell House near the present town of Hope on Pend Oreille Lake’s north end. Kullyspell was Thompson’s spelling of Kalispell and was not only Idaho’s first building but the first trading post in the American Pacific Northwest. It was a large log structure with two stone chimneys, one on either end of the building. It only survived until 1812 due to a shortage of pasture for horses or camping and, abandoned, it quickly decayed. The

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

BELOW LEFT AND RIGHT: Deep in conversation — Cliff SiJohn talks with one of the Spokane bagpipers. Making a presentation—Francis SiJohn, Vice Chairman of the Coeur d’Alene Tribal Council, and Cliff SiJohn with one of the Scottish golfers. OPPOSITE: Ready to tee off—The Scots and the Coeur d’Alene line up prior to the start of play.

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

ABOVE: Party on the veranda—Fellowship and discussion of the rounds outside the clubhouse at Circling Raven Golf Course.

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

chimneys remained standing for eighty-seven years until they were toppled by a severe windstorm. Local residents soon forgot the old trading post and it nearly disappeared from memory. In 1928, historians relocated the site with the aid of an elderly blind Indian man named Kali Too. He remembered seeing chimneys as a child and using just his memory, was able to guide historians to two large piles of rocks, later determined to be the remains of two chimneys. An informational sign now marks this historic point in Idaho’s history and in the history of the Coeur d’Alene Tribe. Other trading posts were established near present day Thompson Falls, Montana and

was amazed how much it all lege talks to cultural history edureminded me of Indian Country. cation for casino employees. That’s the first thought I had and I Cliff is more than a historian found out later that similar and speaker, he is an orator. He has thoughts had struck others who a presence that commands attenhad visited Scotland. It’s the way tion. His voice can hold you, the they embrace a stranger and welwords creating images in your come a stranger mind, leaving to their tables. you hanging on It’s the way they The tables are every syllable embrace a stranger put together so and making and welcome a strangyou sit together you a particier to their tables. The pant in his in a group and tables are put together knowledge and share what you have. It’s a very so you sit together in a presentation. tribal thing. “This is a group and share what You would very historic you have. It’s a very think the difmoment for tribal thing. ferences would this little combe extreme yet munity, this litin many ways we kept seeing these tle reservation,” Cliff extolled. similarities, a sense of hospitality.” “These men have done honor to us Thus when a visit was by coming here from across the arranged for Scottish golfers to waters. These fur-men left their visit the Coeur d’Alene Tribe and mark on us. We will start with a compete in matches at Circling prayer for this historic event, the Raven Golf Club, plans were reuniting of our people with the made to greet and treat them as fur men, the traders, who came to returning friends. Cliff SiJohn us 196 years ago.” was asked to conduct the opening Some of the Scots golfers later ceremonies as he frequently does, in the week would comment how emceeing a variety of events from the impact of Cliff ’s words affected pow-wows to banquets, from colthem, how it made them better

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

Spokane, Washington. “We pretty much had very good relationships with them,” SiJohn commented. “We enjoyed many years of trading with the fur-men. They were right on the heels of Lewis and Clark. The difference was that Lewis and Clark just passed by, waved at the Indians, went to the ocean, turned around and came back, waved at them again and never established a trading post. These guys also went clear to the ocean, trading, and would bring back different things with them to trade with us.” David Thompson was to become perhaps the greatest land geographer in North American history and lived with and traveled amongst the Indians for many years. In the process he traveled about 80,000 miles through the wilderness. It was 2004 when Bob Bostwick traveled to Scotland and visited Royal Dornoch Golf Club. Royal Dornoch is the third oldest golf club in this country where golf was born. Bostwick serves as the director of public relations for the Coeur d’Alene Casino Resort Hotel and is also an avid golfer. “I

understand the impact the two culcerity. We touched each tures had upon each other and the other’s hands. We have never significance of this meeting nearly been the same. I believe these two hundred years later. men brought us a new way to “Grandfather in the heavens, think. We ask You in our openthank You for this day. Thank ing ceremonies and our prayer to You for bringing our old friends the Grand-father in the heavens back to this country. Hear our to shine on these men.” prayers for these The name men and their “…they will always Pointed Hearts families and was later changed be welcome with their children to the French Schitsu’umsh people name of Coeur and their children’s children’s d’Alene, meaning for it is with them children that heart of the awl that gave us the they will always or pointed heart. name Pointed be welcome with Schitsu’umsh is Hearts…” Schitsu’umsh no longer recogpeople for it is nized except by a with them that gave us the name few. Cliff explained that the tradiPointed Hearts,” Cliff expressed tional name would be translated as in prayer, his voice captivating all The Discovered Ones, or The in the audience. “ These men were Ones Who Were Always Here. the first to speak with us in sin On that opening morning of

the long-anticipated golf match, horseback riders in full regalia arrived to the sound of a drum, followed by a Scottish group with bagpipes. The Scotch golfers were dressed in kilts while tribal golfers wore Circling Raven Golf Club shirts. Gifts were distributed to the visitors, among them a peace pipe to Andrew Skinner, club pro and leader of the group from Royal Dornoch Golf Club. A medicine stick made from the rib of a buffalo was given by military veterans of the Tribe, the Warrior Society, to a visiting golfer who was a member of the Royal Air Force, Michael Mackay. “The veterans of the club and Dornoch will be proud to accept this and I’m proud to accept on their behalf,” Mackay responded. Skinner spoke for the team. “Since we arrived we’ve all been

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

overwhelmed with the hospitality and friendship. We wish you all the best and thank you very much.” Others had similar comments. “Since we’ve been here it’s been unbelievable, what has been given to us, and the hospitality has been absolutely tremendous. I can’t fault anything,” said Michael Mackay. Cliff SiJohn returned to the

OPPOSITE: Standing on ceremony—Scots and Coeur d’Alene golfers stand as the Coeur d’Alene Drum performs, prior to the start of play. ABOVE, LEFT TO RIGHT: That’s a par—Two Coeur d’Alene golfers putting out on the 1st green. Fore!—Scottish golfer on the 1st tee at Circling Raven. Not the caddy—A bull moose trots through to share in the festivities.

microphone. “These men were the first to speak with us in sincerity, the first ones we trusted. There were others that did not last that long when they lied to us, but these men came in friendship and trade. They will always be welcome with the Schitsu’umsh.” Laughter erupted when he spoke of other ways these Scotsmen left their mark. “Our chairman is Chief Allan. An Allan is one of the leaders of the Dornoch golfers. Names like Matheson, Campbell, Finlay and

ceremonies when Cliff SiJohn spoke, it started to hit home. I don’t think this is local or nationwide news. What’s happened here this week should be world news.” The Scots golfers were already talking of a return visit by tribal golfers to Scotland. “I hope we can arrange something half as good again for these guys coming back to

PHOTO BY JACK MCNEEL

others are common on the reservation – Scottish names!” Another laugh broke out when he spoke to the golf enthusiasts and “hole in one wannabes.” Alex Campbell was secretary for the Scottish team. As the week came to an end he commented, “It’s been immense! Awesome! There aren’t enough superlatives.

The way we’ve been treated by the Coeur d’Alene Tribe and others we’ve met from other tribes – they’re just a great bunch of people!” He continued in a subdued voice, nearly in tears. “It’s been a life-changing experience to come here and hang out with these guys. They’re good guys with big hearts. We feel that warmth and that friendship. I just hope we can live up to the way that we’ve been treated. We’ve grown and learned about ourselves, our history. The significance of it at the opening

Scotland at some point to play a return game. After receiving the friendship and hospitality we’ve found here we can’t leave it at this, it definitely needs to continue,” Mackay said. A year and a half have now passed since Mackay spoke those words. Discussions have continued and there’s a very good chance such a trip by Coeur d’Alene tribal golfers to Scotland will occur this fall, but as this magazine goes to press, final arrangements are still being discussed. The friendship has been rekindled, the historical significance realized. The exchange needs to continue and the word will spread across the oceans. Jack McNeel lives in Coeur d’Alene. ©FEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

recipe contest 2007

Warm Up the Oven!

arm up the oven, pull out the skillet, and get ready to cook! We're looking for a few of your favorite recipes to share with your friends. The recipe for the 2007 IDAHO magazine Recipe Contest may sound familiar, but we're cooking up some new aspects to the contest, said Leah Clark, from the Idaho Preferred™ program of the Department of Agriculture, and Kitty Fleischman, publisher of the magazine. The main thing is that the deadline is being moved up by four months to give adequate time for the contest's judging, and still have time to announce winners in the magazine's September issue. Also, winning recipes will be prepared for sampling at this year's “Taste of Idaho” program on Sept. 8 at the Center on the Grove in Boise. Contest categories include an “overall” winner, and winners in three categories: main course, dessert and “general,” which will include salads, appetizers and other delectable tidbits. Winners in the 2006 contest included: Overall Recipe Winner Carl Melina, from Moscow, for his entry Chicken Lonehawk; 1st Place Entree winner Stacey Kemper, of Boise, for her entry Bavarian Sauerbauten; 1st Place Dessert winner (and former Boise High teacher) Niki Romani, of Houston, TX, for her entry Cinnamon Flip; and tied 1st Place General Recipe winners Marilyn Aggeler of Twin Falls, for her entry Ham-cheese Puff and Maryann Merrick, of Boise, for her entry Chinese Quail Salad. In addition to receiving cash prizes, entrants also received gifts of cookware and utensils from independent Pampered Chef® consultant, Emily Sullivan. Winning recipes will be featured in IDAHO magazine during the coming months. “If you think artists are tempermental, you should see chefs!” Velma Morrison, a former restaurateur, once told me. That may be true in many cases, but if you're familiar with the expression, “the bigger they are, the nicer they are,” you may have met Rod Jessick, the executive chef for Hagadone Hospitality in Coeur d’ Alene where he supervises some of Idaho’s finest restaurants, including the five-star Beverly’s, the flagship restaurant for the legendary Coeur d’ Alene Resort. Jessick said his team of chefs (12 and growing) prepare each dish twice, all of the chefs sample them and they vote. Each chef has one vote per category except Jessick, who has unlimited votes. Entry fee is $10 for the first recipe submitted, and $5 for each additional recipe entered in the contest. All must be postmarked by June 15, 2007, and all must include at least one ingredient from the Idaho Preferred™ program. There is no limit on how many Idaho Preferred™ ingredients may be part of the recipe. The list of Idaho Preferred™ companies is available from the website at: http:// www2.idahoag.us/idahopreferred/Active/suppliers_directory.html or by calling Idaho Preferred™ at (208) 332.8500 and asking for information.

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

Kitty Fleischman, publisher/editor of IDAHO magazine

recipe contest

Chicken LoneHawk 2006 Overall Recipe Winner By Carl Melina Serves 4 INGREDIENTS 1 medium onion 4 chicken breasts (or one rabbit cut up) 1 package LoneHawk Farm Rosemary Dijon Elk Sausage 1 can white beans (drained) 2 Tbs. vegetable oil 2 Tbs. olive oil 1 1/4 cups dry white wine 1 3/4 cups chicken broth (13 3/4 oz.) 2 Tbs. Dijon mustard 1 tsp. cornstarch 2 Tbs. chopped fresh parsley leaves PREPARATION > Finely chop onion. Pat chicken dry and season with salt and pepper. In a deep, large, heavy skillet heat oil over moderate heat until hot but not smoking and brown chicken pieces on both sides. Transfer chicken as browned to a large bowl. > In skillet cook onion in 1 Tbs. olive oil over moderately low heat, stirring until softened. Add wine and boil until liquid is reduced by about half. Return chicken to skillet and add broth. Simmer chicken, covered, until tender and cooked through(about 30 minutes). > About 15 minutes before chicken is finished, place sausage in skillet and add cold water, just to top of sausages. Cook sausages in water, discarding remaining water when sausages are cooked thoroughly (about 10 minutes). Cut sausages into 1/2 inch slices and set aside. > Transfer chicken to cleaned large bowl and boil sauce until reduced to about 2 cups. In a small bowl whisk together 1/4 cup sauce and mustard and whisk mixture into sauce. In another small bowl stir cornstarch into 1 Tbs. cold water and whisk into sauce. Simmer sauce, whisking, 3 minutes, or until thickened. Whisk remaining Tbs. butter, parsley, and salt and pepper to taste. Return chicken to skillet and add sausage and beans. Cook over moderately low heat until heated through. Carl Melina owns the LoneHawk Farm and lives in Moscow.

ÂŠFEBRUARY 2 0 0 7

feb 1 - mar 10/2007 idaho calendar of events feb 1-22 Falls 2 5 7-28 7-28 9-10 10 10 10-11 11 13 13 14-3/4 14 15 15 15-17 15-20 16 16 16-17 16-19 17 17 17 17 17 17 18, 25 18

Charity Winter Photo Show, Idaho Red Dress Concert, symphony, Idaho Falls Martin Luther King III speaks, UI, Moscow Wednesday Winter Wildlife Snowshoe Walks, Sun Valley Wed. Workouts at Galena, skating & skiing, Sun Valley Cleo Parker Robinson Dance, Rexburg Sites Violins Music School, student recitals, Idaho Falls Cornell Gunter's Coasters, 1950s-1970s R&B, Blackfoot Stacey's Kids Fun Races, Pebble Creek, Lava Hot Springs Leif's Race, Nordic & Telemark, Sun Valley Magic Philharmonic Orchestra, Burley Stone tools & Weapons, Brown Bag Lecture, Idaho Historical Museum, Boise K2, play, Company of Fools, Hailey Jimmie "JJ" Walker, comedy, Nampa Civic Center, Nampa The American Ten, ARTALK with Sherry Best, Idaho Falls Czech Nonet, Baroque, Classical and Romantic music, Rexburg Simplot Games, track & field, Pocatello Madcap Mardi Gras, Sandpoint Fur, Feathers & Fins, introduction to ballet, Idaho Falls Gallery Walk, Ketchum & Sun Valley American Dog Derby, Ashton Winter Jamboree, snowmobile races, food & fun, Cascade Boulder Backwards Classic, Sun Valley Kids Competition, Pomerelle, Twin Falls Nampa Rec Indoor Tri-athlon, Nampa Lions Trap Shoot, Lava Hot Springs The Inside Ride, cycle race, Boise Race to Snow Bank, Cascade Gospel Jubilee, Grand 'Ole Opry style, Nampa Potato Cup Nordic Ski Race, Mink Creek I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

20 21-22 21-24 23 24 24 24 24 25 25 26 26

Nordic Center, Pocatello Chocolate Extravaganza, SJRMC Family Hospice fundraiser, Lewiston Symphony Orchestra, Kevin Call & Student Concerto Winners, Rexburg Lionel Hampton Internâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;l Jazz Festival, University of Idaho, Moscow Hansel & Gretel, play, Idaho Falls Idaho Bluegrass Night, Rexburg Music A-Z, symphony, Idaho Falls Charitas Chorale Concert, Warm Springs & Ketchum Jugglemania and Shoehorn, Jazz Circus, Nampa SnoDrifters of Latah County Winter Fun Run, Lewiston C.W. Hog Ski-A-Thon Disabled Skiers Fundraisers, Pebble Creek, Pocatello Missoula Children's Theatre Audition, Grangeville The Hughes Brothers, Broadway to gospel music, Nampa

mar 1-2 1-29 1-31

Summer Symphony Lectures, Sun Valley Free Snowshoe with a Ranger, Thursdays, Sun Valley Eastern Id. Photographic Society Show, Idaho Falls

2-3, 5-6 2, 5 3 3 3 3-4 4, 18, 25 4 5 5 8 9 9 99-10 10 10 10 10-11 10-12

Oklahoma, musical, Blackfoot Extravadance, Rexburg Turtle Island String Quartet, Sun Valley Premiere of Sacred Music Oratorio 'The Tree of Life', Rexburg Cherry Poppin' Daddies, Blackfoot Just Beween Friends, Coeur d'Alene Gospel Jubilee, in the spirit of the Grand 'Ole Opry, Nampa Annual Snowboard Rally, Pebble Creek, Pocatello Annual Telemark Festival, Pebble Creek, Pocatello Much Ado About Nothing, play, Challis Brown Bag, 'Lunch & Look', Idaho Falls Boise Baroque Orchestra, Nampa Symphony Orchestra Regional Talent Extravaganza, Coeur d'Alene BYU-Idaho Jazz Festival Concerts, Kevin Mahogeny, Rexburg St. Patrick's Day Run & Walk, Hagerman Tri State Spring Sprint Duathlon & 10K Run, Lewiston George Hill Snowshoe Volleyball Tournament, Priest Lake Snowshoe Softball Tournament, Finals, Priest Lake Carmen, opera, Idaho Falls

Do you have a special event in your town? Send us the vital information, and weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll make sure friends and neighbors across the street and across the state know about it. All functions must be free to the public or darn cheap. Events charging admission fees are welcome to purchase ad space. DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSIONS: The first of the month, one month prior to date of publication. Example: Deadline for the June 2007 issue is May 1.

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february contributors in IDAHO magazine. “Buddy” is available online at popular booksellers, or by asking for it at your favorite bookstore. Corbett is a columnist for The Idaho State Journal, and is a frequent contributor to IDAHO magazine.

Desiré Aguirre lives in Sandpoint. She is currently attending NIC, has a column in the Sentinel and has also been published in various magazines. Her favorite sport is riding her Pinto mare, Splash, into the hills with her son’s faithful dog, Cholo. She has two teen-age children who are her sunshine and joy.

Jamey Coulter was raised in Carey and has worked numerous jobs, but her first love has always been the written word. She married her husband in 1998, and their sons were born in 2001 and 2004. Jamey says she was “raised” on horseback. Her family has been pivotal to following her dream of writing, teaching her patience and perseverance.

Ann Clizer lives on Flume Creek, a small drainage in the Cabinet watershed northeast of Sandpoint. Her work has appeared in various regional and national publications, and she is at work on her first novel, "On Higher Ground," which is set in the backwoods of Northern Idaho. Toinette Dickey is a long-time contributor to IDAHO magazine. Her first story, an article about travelling along the Payette River, appeared in November 2002. Her current piece is a fine bookend to her earlier effort. She and her husband, Steve, live in Nampa. Bill Corbett raised barley and wheat before becoming a writer. He writes fiction under the name Will Edwinson, and is currently promoting his national awardwinning book, Buddy...His Trials and Treasures, originally serialized

I DAH O MAGA Z I N E

Donna Emert writes full time for the University of Idaho. She holds a master’s in English from Washington State University. Her work has appeared in university and regional publications, including Here We Have Idaho, Programs & People, and the now defunct Palouse Journal. She lives with her husband, three children and several chickens in Coeur d'Alene.

Kitty Fleischman Until she met and fell in love with a red-headed gold miner in Nome in 1979, the sum of her knowledge of Idaho was: Frank Church, Cecil Andrus and Idaho potatoes. Moving to the Gem State in 1981 to marry the man of her dreams, her life changed, and she found the place where she’d always wanted to be. Gerry & Kitty will celebrate their 25th anniversary in April. Kitty was a teacher, she has written and photographed for United Press International, was a founder and co-publisher of the Idaho Business Review, wrote Velma Morrison’s memoirs, “The Bluebird Will Sing Tomorrow,” and is the publisher and editor of IDAHO magazine.

Dick Lee illustrates IDAHO magazine. “I am still, and will probably always be looking for my ‘voice’ and trying to master the various media. My medium of preference…is drawing.”

Jack McNeel is an Idaho native, born and raised in Caldwell but a long-time resident of Coeur d'Alene. He retired from the Idaho Department of Fish and Game and now writes extensively for a variety of magazines and newspapers primarily on either travel subjects or Native American subjects.

Ryan Peck is a native Idahoan. His interests include songwriting, strumming on his guitar, mandolin, and banjo, attempting to break the speed of sound on his road bike, drinking hot chocolate, watching movies with his girlfriend, and enjoying Boise’s foothills.

William Studebaker hangs around watching folks, kayaking, camping, and hunting upland birds. He is a partner in Idaho Whitewater Safety and Rescue, LLC. He was awarded the 2005 Outstanding Achievement in the Humanities Award for his contribution to Idaho literature.

Les Tanner Married fifty years this past August; two kids, three grandkids. Fun: Fishing, writing, photography, gardening, metal detecting, racquetball, butterfly collecting. Anything else? Oh, yes. Taught mathematics for over forty years.

Dean Worbois a third generation Idahoan, Dean is filled with stories of settling, building, and living in the Gem State. He has written about Boise’s geothermal development and the history of building and heating Boise High School. Dean waits tables at Richard’s in Hyde Park and celebrates by blowing his money on beer and travel.

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